.^..••••:<    '     •  >     •••, 


T>  /\  T\  Ti  f  A  TT 


DR.     HOLLAND'S    WORKS. 

Kucli  in  one  volume  12«io. 

n-KKT;  a  I'oem $1  50 

KATHltlXA:  a  Poem 1  50 

LETTS US  TO    rOl'.VO  PEOPl.K,      ....  1  50 

(,0f.n  f'Off.,  hHinmeretlfrom  I'oi.vUir  Proverb*,  1  75 

LEXSOyti  IX  LffK, 1  75 

/'/..l/.V  TALKS,  on  Fiimttlnr  Subject*,        .     .  1  75 

LETTERS  TO  THE  JOXESBS,     .'     .     .     .     .  1  75 

UISS  (1 1 1.  HE  UTS  UAllEEH, M  00 

HA  }'  7M  Til, 2  UO 

THE  X.IHHLE  PROPHECY,  and  oilier  Poem*,  1  50 
UARSEHEf)     SHEAVES,     fompl  te     Poetical 

Work*,  red  line  edition, 4  00 

Thf  flrxt  nix  volume* are  ixxiunl  in  en' i net  *i4.'(16wt>), 
"  Itrluhticiiod  Edition,'"  at  name  price  i  a.t  abtite. 


ARTHUR  BONNICASTLE, 


AMERICAN    NOVEL. 


BY 

J.     G.     HOLLAND, 

AUTHOR   OF 

'THE  BAY  PATH,"   "Miss  GILBERT'S  CAREER,"   "BITTER -SWEET,' 
"KATHRINA,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  twelve  full-page  Illustrations  by  MARY  A.   HALLOCK. 


NEW    YORK: 
SCRIBNER,     ARMSTRONG     &     CO. 

18/3- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  liy 

SCRIBNER,   ARMSTRONG   &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Stereotyped  at  the 

WOMEN'S     PRINTING     HOUSE, 

56,  58  and  60  Park  Street, 

New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGtt 

CHAPTER  I .  Thank  a  Blind  Horse  for  Good  Luck 9 

CHAPTER  II.   I   visit   an   Ogress   and  a   Giant   in   their   Enchanted 

Castle 37 

CHAPTER  III.   I  go  to  The  Bird's  Nest  to  live,  and  the  Giant  persists 

in  his  Plans  for  a  Sea  Voyage 50 

CHAPTER  IV.  In  which  the  Course  of  True  Love  is  not  permitted  to 

run  at  all 68 

CHAPTER  V.  The  Discipline  of  The  Bird's  Nest  as  illustrated  by  two 

startling  public  Trials 77 

CHAPTER  VI.   I  become  a  Member  of  Mrs.  Sanderson's  Family  and 

have  a  wonderful  Voyage  with  Jenks  upon  the  Atlas 99 

CHAPTER  VII.  I  leave  The  Bird's  Nest  and  make  a  great  Discovery  .    114 

CHAPTER  VIII.  I  am  introduced  to  new  Characters  and  enter  the 

Shadow  of  the  great  Bedlow  Revival 130 

CHAPTER  IX.   I  pass  through  a  terrible  Tempest  into  the  Sunlight. . .   151 

CHAPTER  X.  I  join  a  Church  that  leaves  out  Mr.  Bradford  and  Millie.    165 

CHAPTER  XI.   The  old  Portrait  is  discovered  and  old  Jenks  has  a  real 

Voyage  at  Sea 180 

CHAPTER  XII.  Mrs.  Sanderson  takes  a  Companion  and  I  go  to  Col 
lege  195 

CHAPTER  XIII.  The  Beginning  of  College  Life.— I  meet  Peter  Mul 
lens,  Gordon  Livingston,  and  Temptation 209 

• 

CHAPTER  XIV.  My  first  Visit  to  New  York,  and  my  first  Glass  of 

Wine 223 

CHAPTER  XV.  I  go  out  to  make  New-Year's  Calls  and  return  in  Dis 
grace 233 


6  Contents. 

PACB 

CHAPTER  XVI.  Peter  Mullens  acquires  a  very  large  Stock  of  old 

Clothes 248 

CHAPTER  XVII.  I  change  my  Religious  Views  to  conform  with  my 

Moral  Practice,  and  am  graduated  without  Honors 256 

CHAPTER  XVIII.  Henry  becomes  a  Guest  at  The  Mansion  by  force 

of  Circumstances 272 

CHAPTER  XIX.  Jcnks  goes  far,  far  away  upon  the  Billow,  and  never 

comes  back 286 

CHAPTER  XX.  Mr.  Bradford  tells  me  a  Story  which  changes  the  De 
terminations  of  my  Life 293 

CHAPTER  XXI.  I  meet  an  old  Friend  who  becomes  my  Rival 309 

CHAPTER  XXII.  Mrs.  Sanderson  meets  her  Grandson  and  I  return  to 

my  Father's  Home 327 

CHAPTER  XXIII.  I  take  Arthur  Bonnicastle  upon  my  own  Hands 

and  succeed  with  him 348 

CHAPTER  XXIV.  In  which  I  learn  something  about  Livingston,  Mil 
lie  Bradford,  and  Myself. 359 

CHAPTER  XXV.  I  win  a  Wife  and  Home  of  my  own,  and  The  Man 
sion  loses  and  gains  a  Mistress 368 

CHAPTER  XXVI.  Which  briefly  records  the  Professional  Life  of  Rev. 

Peter  Mullens. . ". 384. 

CHAPTER  XXVII.  In  which  I  say  Good-night  to  my  Friends  and  the 

Past,  and  Good-morrow  to  my  Work  and  the  Future 392 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


1.  WHAT  HAVE  YOU  COME  HERE  FOR?    Frontispiece. 

2.  "ONE  THING  MORE,  PLEASE,"  I  SAID;    "I  WANT  TO  TELL  YOU 

THAT  I  LOVE  YOU." 

3.  "JENKS,"  SAID  THE  LADY,   "TAKE  THIS  BOY  TO  HIS  FATHER." 

4.  THE  APPEAL  FROM  MAN  TO  WOMAN — FROM  JUSTICE  TO  MERCY. 

5.  CLAIRE'S   HAND  LIGHTED  THE  CANDLE  WITH  WHICH  I  LED  HIM 

TO  HIS  ROOM. 

6.  STEPPING  UP  BEHIND  HIM,  I  PUT  MY  HAND  UPON  HIS  SHOULDER, 

AND  SAID:  "WELL,  HOW  DO  YOU  LIKE  IT?" 

7.  MRS.  BELDEN  HELD  CLAIRE'S  HAND. 

8.  MR.  BRADFORD  AND  ARTHUR  ON  THE  STEAMER. 

9.  MRS.  BELDEN  KNELT  AT  HENRY'S  BED  WITH  HER  ARMS  AROUND 

HIS  NECK. 

10.  THE  OLD  COOK  REGARDED  us  IN  WONDERING  SILENCE. 

11.  THE  WATER-LILY'S  SECRET. 

12.  THE  REV.  PETER  MULLENS. 


ARTHUR    BONNICASTLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THANK  A  BLIND  HORSE  FOR  GOOD  LUCK. 

LIFE  looks  beautiful  from  both  extremities.  Prospect  and 
retrospect  shine  alike  in  a  light  so  divine  as  to  suggest  that  the 
first  catches  some  radiance  from  the  gates,  not  yet  closed,  by 
which  the  soul  has  entered,  and  that  the  last  is  illuminated  from 
the  opening  realm  into  which  it  is  soon  to  pass. 

Now  that  they  are  all  gone,  I  wrap  myself  in  dreams  of  them, 
and  live  over  the  old  days  with  them.  Even  the  feeblest  mem 
ory,  that  cannot  hold  for  a  moment  the  events  of  to-day,  keeps 
a  linn  grasp  upon  the  things  of  youth,  and  rejoices  in  its  treas 
ures.  It  is  a  curious  process — this  of  feeling  one's  way  back 
to  childhood,  and  clothing  one's  self  again  with  the  little  frame 
— the  buoyant,  healthy,  restless  bundle  of  muscles  and  nerves — 
and  the  old  relations  of  careless  infancy.  The  growing  port 
of  later  years  and  the  ampler  vestments  are  laid  aside  ;  and  one 
stands  in  his  slender  young  manhood.  Then  backward  still 
the  fancy  goes,  making  the  frame  smaller,  and  casting  aside 
each  year  the  changing  garments  that  marked  the  eras  of  early 
growth,  until,  at  last,  one  holds  himself  upon  his  own  knee — 
a  ruddy-faced,  wondering,  questioning,  uneasy  youngster,  in  his 
first  trousers  and  roundabout,  and  dandles  and  kisses  the  dear 
little  fellow  that  he  was  ! 

They  were  all  here  then — father,  mother,  brothers  and  sis 
ters  ;  and  the  family  life  was  at  its  fullest.  Now  they  are  all 


io  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

gone,  and  I  am  alone.  All  the  present  relations  of  my  life  are 
those  which  have  originated  since.  1  have  wife  and  children, 
and  troops  of  friends,  yet  still  I  am  alone.  No  one  of  all  the 
number  can  go  back  with  me  into  these  reminiscences  of  my 
earliest  life,  or  give  me  sympathy  in  them. 

My  father  was  a  plain,  ingenious,  industrious  craftsman,  and 
a  modest  and  thoroughly  earnest  Christian.  I  have  always 
supposed  that  the  neighbors  held  him  in  contempt  or  pity  for 
his  lack  of  shrewdness  in  business,  although  they  knew  that  he 
was  in  all  respects  their  superior  in  education  and  culture, 
lie  was  an  omnivorous  reader,  and  was  so  intelligent  in  matters 
of  history  and  poetry  that  the  village  doctor,  a  man  of  literary 
tastes,  found  in  him  almost  his  only  sympathetic  companion. 
The  misfortunes  of  our  family  brought  them  only  too  frequently 
together  ;  and  my  first  real  thinking  was  excited  by  their  con 
versations,  to  which  I  was  always  an  eager  listener. 

My  father  was  an  affectionate  man.  His  life  seemed  bound 
up  in  that  of  my  mother,  yet  he  never  gave  a  direct  expression 
to  his  affection.  1  knew  he  could  not  live  without  her,  yet  I 
never  saw  him  kiss  her,  or  give  her  one  caress.  Indeed,  I  do 
not  remember  that  he  ever  kissed  me,  or  my  sisters.  We  all 
grew  up  hungry,  missing  something,  and  he,  poor  man,  was 
hungriest  of  all  ;  but  his  Puritan  training  held  him  through  life 
in  slavery  to  notions  of  propriety  which  forbade  all  impulses  to 
expression.  He  would  have  been  ashamed  to  kiss  his  wife  in 
the  presence  of  his  children  ! 

I  suppose  it  is  this  peculiarity  of  my  father  which  makes  me 
remember  so  vividly  and  so  gratefully  a  little  incident  of  my 
boyhood.  It  was  an  early  summer  evening ;  and  the  yellow 
moon  was  at  its  full.  I  stood  out  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn 
before  the  house  alone,  looking  up  to  the  golden-orbed  won 
der,  which — so  high  were  the  hills  piled  around  our  little- 
valley — seemed  very  near  to  me.  I  felt  rather  than  saw  my 
father  approaching  me.  There  was  no  one  looking,  and  he 
half  knelt  and  put  his  arm  around  me.  There  was  something 
in  the  clasp  of  that  strong,  warm  arm  that  I  have  never  forgot- 


Arthur  Bonnicastlc.  1 1 

ten.  It  thrilled  me  through  with  the  consciousness  that  I  was 
most  tenderly  beloved.  Then  he  told  me  what  the  moon  was, 
and  by  the  simplest  illustrations  tried  to  bring  to  my  mind  a 
comprehension  of  its  magnitude  and  its  relations  to  the  earth. 
1  only  remember  that  I  could  not  grasp  the  thought  at  all,  and 
that  it  all  ended  in  his  taking  me  in  his  arms  and  carrying  me 
to  my  bed. 

The  seclusion  in  which  we  lived  among  the  far  New  Hamp 
shire  hills  was  like  that  in  which  a  family  of  squirrels  lives  in 
the  forest ;  and  as,  at  ten  years  of  age,  I  had  never  been  ten 
miles  from  home,  the  stories  that  came  to  my  ears  of  the  great 
world  that  lay  beyond  my  vision  were  like  stories  of  fairy-land. 
Fifty  years  ago  the  echoes  of  the  Revolution  and  the  War  of 
1812  had  not  died  away,  and  soldiers  who  had  served  in  both 
wars  were  plenty.  My  imagination  had  been  many  times  excited 
by  the  stories  that  had  been  told  at  my  father's  fireside  ;  and 
those  awful  people,  "  the  British,"  were  to  me  the  embodiment 
of  cruelty  and  terror.  One  evening,  I  remember,  my  father 
came  in,  and  remarked  that  he  had  just  heard  the  report  of  a 
cannon.  The  phrase  was  new,  and  sounded  very  large  and 
.  significant  to  me,  and  I  attributed  it  at  once  to  the  approach 
of  "  the  British."  My  father  laughed,  but  I  watched  the  con 
verging  roads  for  the  appearance  of  the  red-coats  for  many 
days.  The  incident  is  of  no  value  except  to  show  how  closely 
between  those  green  hills  my  life  had  been  bound,  and  how 
entirely  my  world  was  one  of  imagination.  I  was  obliged  to 
build  the  world  that  held  alike  my  facts  and  my  fancies. 

When  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  I  became  conscious  that 
something  was  passing  between  my  father  and  my  mother  of  an 
unusual  character.  They  held  long  conferences  from  which 
their  children  were  excluded.  Then  a  rich  man  of  the  neigh 
borhood  rode  into  the  yard,  and  tied  his  horse,  and  walked 
about  the  farm.  From  a  long  tour  lie  returned  and  entered 
the  stable,  where  he  was  joined  by  my  father.  Both  came  into 
the  house  together,  and  went  all  over  it,  even  down  to  the  cellar, 
where  they  held  a  long  conversation.  Then  they  were  closeted 


12  Artliur  Bonnicastle. 

for  an  hour  in  the  room  which  held  my  father's  writing-desk. 
At  last,  my  mother  was  called  into  the  room.  The  children, 
myself  among  them,  were  huddled  together  in  a.  corner  of  the 
large  kitchen,  filled  with  wonder  at  the  strange  proceedings  ; 
and  when  all  came  out,  the  stranger  smiling  and  my  father  and 
mother  looking  very  serious,  my  curiosity  was  at  a  painful  height ; 
and  no  sooner  had  the  intruder  vanished  from  the  room — 
pocketing  a  long  paper  as  he  went — than  1  demanded  an 
explanation. 

My  sisters  were  older  than  I,  and  to  them  the  explanation  was 
addressed.  My  father  simply  said  at  first  :  "  1  have  sold  the 
place."  Tears  sprang  into  all  our  eyes,  as  if  a  great  calamity 
had  befallen  us.  Were  we  to  be  wanderers?  Were  we  to 
have  no  home  ?  Where  were  we  to  go  ? 

Then  my  father,  who  was  as  simple  as  a  child,  undertook  the 
justification  of  himself  to  his  children.  He  did  not  know  why 
he  had  consented  to  live  in  such  a.  place  for  a  year.  He 
told  tiie  story  of  the  fallacious  promises  and  hopes  that  had 
induced  him  to  buy  the  farm  at  first ;  of  his  long  social  depri 
vations  ;  of  his  hard  and  often  unsuccessful  efforts  to  make  the 
year's  income  meet  the  year's  constantly  increasing  expenses  ; 
and  then  he  dwelt  particularly  on  the  fact  that  his  duty  to  his 
children  compelled  him  to  seek  a  home  where  they  could  secure 
a  better  education,  and  have  a  chance,  at  least,  to  make  their 
Avay  in  the  world.  I  saw  then,  just  as  clearly  as  I  see  to-day, 
that  the  motives  of  removal  all  lay  in  the  last  consideration. 
He  saw  possibilities  in  his  children  which  demanded  other  cir 
cumstances  and  surroundings.  He  knew  that  in  his  secluded 
home  among  the  mountains  they  could  not  have  a  fair  chance 
at  life,  and  he  would  not  be  responsible  for  holding  them  to 
associations  that  had  been  simply  starvation  and  torment  to 
him. 

The  first  shock  over,  I  turned  to  the  future  with  the  most 
charming  anticipations.  My  life  was  to  be  led  out  beyond  the 
hills  into  an  unknown  world  !  I  learned  the  road  by  which  we 
were  to  go ;  and  beyond  the  woods  in  which  it  terminated  to 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  13 

my  vision  my  imagination  pushed  through  splendid  towns, 
across  sweeping  rivers,  over  vast  plains  and  meadows,  on  and 
on  to  the  wide  sea.  There  were  castles,  there  were  ships, 
there  were  chariots  and  horses,  there  was  a  noble  mansion 
swept  and  garnished,  waiting  to  receive  us  all,  and,  more  than 
all,  there  was  a  life  of  great  deeds  which  should  make  my  father 
proud  of  his  boy,  and  in  which  I  remember  that  "  the  British  " 
were  to  be  very  severely  handled. 

The  actual  removal  hardly  justified  the  picture.  There  were 
two  overloaded  three-horse  teams,  and  a  high,  old-fashioned 
wagon,  drawn  by  a  single  horse,  in  which  were  bestowed  the  fam 
ily,  the  family  satchels,  and  the  machinery  of  an  eight-day  clock 
— a  pet  of  my  father,  who  had  had  it  all  in  pieces  for  repairs  every 
year  since  I  was  born.  I  did  not  burden  the  wagon  with  my  pres 
ence,  but  found  a  seat,  when  I  was  not  running  by  the  way 
side,  with  the  driver  of  one  of  the  teams.  He  had  attracted 
me  to  his  company  by  various  sly  nods  and  winks,  and  by  a 
funny  way  of  talking  to  his  horses.  He  was  an  old  teamster, 
and  knew  not  only  every  inch  of  the  road  that  led  to  the  dis 
tant  market-town  to  which  we  were  going,  but  every  landlord, 
groom,  and  bar-keeper  on  the  way.  A  man  of  such  vast  geo 
graphical  knowledge,  and  such  extensive  and  interesting 
acquaintance  with  men,  became  to  me  a  most  important  per 
sonage.  When  he  had  amused  himself  long  enough  with  stories 
told  to  excite  my  imagination,  he  turned  to  me  sharply  and 
said  : 

"  Boy,  do  you  ever  tell  lies  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  without  hesitation. 

"You  do  ?  Then  why  didn't  you  lie  when  I  asked  you  the 
question  ?  " 

"  Because  I  never  lie  except  to  please  people,"  I  replied. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  one  of  the  story-tellers,  are  you?"  he  said, 
in  a  tone  of  severity. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  then,  you  ought  to  be  Hogged.  If  I  had  a  story 
telling  boy  I  would  Hog  it  out  of  him.  Truth,  boy — always 


14  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

stand  by  the  truth  !  It  was  only  this  time  last  year  that  I  was 
carrying  a  load  of  goods  down  the  mountain  for  a  family  the 
same  as  yours,  and  there  was  a  little  boy  who  went  with  me 
the  same  as  you  are  going  now.  I  was  sure  I  smelt  tobacco. 
Said  I,  '  I  smell  tobacco.'  He  grew  red  in  the  face,  and  I 
charged  him  with  having  some  in  his  pocket.  He  declared  he 
had  none,  and  I  said,  '  We  shall  see  what  will  come  to  liars.' 
I  pitied  him,  for  I  knew  something  terrible  would  happen.  A 
strap  broke,  and  the  horses  started  on  a  run,  and  off  went  the 
boy.  I  stopped  them  as  soon  as  I  could,  ran  back  and  picked 
him  up  insensible,  with  as  handsome  a  plug  of  tobacco  in  his 
pocket  as  you  ever  saw ;  and  the  rascal  had  stolen  it  from  his 
grandmother  !  Always  speak  the  truth,  my  boy,  always  speak 
the  truth  ! " 

"  And  did  you  steal  the  tobacco  from  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"No,  lad,  I  took  it  and  used  it,  because  I  knew  it  would 
hurt  him,  and  I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  exposing  him  to 
his  grandmother." 

"  Do  you  think  lying  is  worse  than  stealing  ?"  I  asked. 

"  That  is  something  we  can't  settle.  Tobacco  is  very  pre 
serving  and  cleansing  to  the  teeth,  and  I  am  obliged  to  use  it. 
Do  you  see  that  little  building  we  are  coming  to  ?  That  is 
Snow's  store  :  and  now,  if  you  are  a  boy  that  has  any  heart — 
any  real  heart — and  if  you  have  saved  up  a  few  pennies,  you 
will  go  in  there  and  get  a  stick  of  candy  for  yourself  and  a  plug 
of  tobacco  for  me.  That  would  be  the  square  thing  for  a  boy 
to  do  who  stands  by  the  truth,  and  wants  to  do  a  good  turn  to 
a  man  that  helps  him  along;"  and  he  looked  me  in  the  eye  so 
steadily  and  persuasively  that  resistance  was  impossible,  and 
my  poor  little  purse  went  back  into  my  pocket  painfully  empty 
of  that  which  had  seemed  like  wealth. 

We  rode  along  quietly  after  this  until  my  companion  asked 
me  if  I  knew  how  tall  I  was.  Of  course  I  did  not  know  any 
thing  about  it,  and  wished  to  learn  the  reason  of  the  question. 
He  had  a  little  boy  of  his  own  at  home — a  very  smart  little 
fellow — who  could  exactly  reach  the  check  rein  of  his  leading 


ArtJntr  Bonnicastle.  15 

horse.  He  had  been  wondering  if  I  could  do  the  same.  He 
should  think  we  were  about  the  same  height,  and  as  it  would  be^ 
a  tiptoe  stretch,  the  performance  would  be  a  matter  of  spring 
and  skill.  At  that  moment  it  happened  that  we  came  to  a 
watering-trough,  which  gave  me  the  opportunity  to  satisfy  his 
curiosity  ;  and  he  sat  smiling  appreciatively  upon  my  frantic  and 
at  last  successful  efforts  to  release  the  leader's  head,  and  lift  it 
again  to  its  check. 

We  came  to  a  steep  acclivity,  and,  under  the  stimulating 
influence  of  the  teamster's  flattery,  I  carried  a  stone  as  large 
as  my  head  from  the  bottom  to  the  top,  to  stay  the  wheels  when 
the  horses  paused  for  breath. 

I  recall  the  lazy  rascal's  practice  upon  my  boyish  credulity 
and  vanity  more  for  my  interest  in  my  own  childishness  than 
for  any  interest  I  still  have  in  him  ;  though  I  cannot  think  that 
the  jolly  old  joker  was  long  ago  dust,  without  a  sigh.  He  was 
a  great  man  to  me  then,  and  he  stirred  me  with  appeals  to  my 
ambition  as  few  have  stirred  me  since.  And  "  standing  by  the 
truth,"  as  he  so  feelingly  adjured  me  to  stand,  I  may  confess 
that  his  appeals  were  not  the  basest  to  which  my  life  has  re 
sponded. 

The  forenoon  was  long,  hot  and  wearisome,  but  at  its  close 
we  emerged  upon  a  beautiful  valley,  and  saw  before  us  a  char 
acteristic  New  England  village,  with  its  white  houses,  large 
and  little,  and  its  two  homely  wooden  spires.  I  was  walking 
as  I  came  in  sight  of  the  village,  and  I  stopped,  touched  with 
the  poetry  of  the  peaceful  scene.  Just  then  the  noon-bell 
pealed  forth  from  one  of  the  little  churches — the  first  church- 
bell  I  had  ever  heard.  I  did  not  know  what  it  was,  and  was 
obliged  to  inquire.  I  have  stood  under  the  belfry  of  Bruges 
since,  and  heard,  amid  the  dull  jargon  of  the  decaying  city,  the 
chimes  from  its  silver-sounding  bells  with  far  less  of  emotion 
than  I  experienced  that  day,  as  I  drank  my  first  draught  of 
the  wonderful  music.  O  sweet  first  time  of  everything  good  in 
life  ! 

Thank  heaven  that,  with  an  eternity  of  duration  before  us, 


1 6  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

there  is  also  infinity  of  resources,  with  ever-varying  supply 
and  ministry,  and  ever-recurring  first  times  ! 

My  father  and  the  rest  of  the  family  had  preceded  us,  and 
we  found  then)  waiting  at  the  village  tavern  for  our  arrival. 
Dinner  was  ready,  and  I  was  quite  ready  for  it,  though  I  was 
not  so  much  absorbed  that  I  cannot  recall  to-day  the  fat  old 
woman  with  Hying  cap-strings  who  waited  at  the  table.  Indeed, 
were  I  an  artist,  I  could  reproduce  the  pictures  on  the  walls 
of  the  low,  long  dining-room  where  we  ate,  so  strongly  did  they 
impress  themselves  upon  my  memory.  We  made  but  a  short 
stay,  and  then  in  our  slow  way  pressed  on.  My  friend  of  the 
team  had  evidently  found  something  more  exhilarating  at  the 
tavern  than  tobacco,  and  was  confidential  and  affectionate,  not 
only  toward  me  but  toward  all  he  met  upon  the  road,  of  whom 
he  told  me  long  and  marvelous  histories.  But  he  grew  dull 
and  even  ill-tempered  at  last,  and  I  had  a  quiet  cry  behind  a 
projecting  bedstead,  for  very  weariness  and  homesickness. 

1  was  too  weary  when  at  dusk  we  arrived  at  the  end  of  our 
day's  progress  to  note,  or  care,  for  anything.  My  supper  was 
quickly  eaten,  and  I  was  at  once  in  the  oblivion  of  sleep.  The 
next  day's  journey  was  unlike  the  first,  in  that  it  was  crowded 
with  life.  The  villages  grew  larger,  so  as  quite  to  excite  my 
astonishment.  I  saw,  indeed,  the  horses  and  the  chariots. 
There  were  signs  of  wealth  that  I  had  never  seen  before, — 
beautifully  kept  lawns,  line,  stately  mansions,  and  gayly- 
drcssed  ladies,  who  humiliated  me  by  regarding  me  with  a  sort 
of  stately  curiosity ;  and  I  realized  as  I  had  never  done  before 
that  there  were  grades  of  life  far  above  that  to  which  I  had 
been  accustomed,  and  that  my  father  was  comparatively  a  poor, 
plain  man. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  second  afternoon  we  came  in  sight 
of  Bradford,  which,  somewhere  within  its  limits,  contained  our 
future  home.  There  were  a  dozen  stately  spires,  there  were 
tall  chimneys  waving  their  plumes  of  pearly  smoke,  there  were 
long  rows  of  windows  red  in  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun, 
there  was  a  river  winding  away  into  the  distance  between  its 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  1 7 

borders  of  elm  and  willow,  and  there  were  white-winged  craft 
that  glided  hither  and  thither  in  the  far  silence. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  boy  ?  "  inquired  my  friend  the 
teamster. 

"Isn't  it  pretty!"  I  responded.  "  Isn't  it  a  grand  place  to 
live  in  ?  "  „ 

"That  depends  upon  whether  one  lives  or  starves,"  he  said. 
"  If  I  were  going  to  starve,  I  would  rather  do  it  where  there 
isn't  anything  to  eat." 

"  But  we  are  not  going  to  starve,"  I  said.  "  Father  never 
will  let  us  starve." 

"  Not  if  he  can  help  it,  boy ;  but  your  father  is  a  lamb — a 
great,  innocent  lamb." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  my  father  a  lamb  ?  He  is  as 
good  a  man  as  there  is  in  Bradford,  any  way,"  I  responded, 
somewhat  indignantly. 

The  man  gave  a  new  roll  to  the  enormous  quid  in  his  mouth, 
a  solace  that  had  been  purchased  by  my  scanty  pennies,  and 
said,  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  "  Oh  !  he's  too  good.  Some 
time  when  you  think  of  it,  suppose  you  look  and  see  if  he  has 
ever  cut  his  eye-teeth." 

';  You  are  making  fun  of  my  father,  and  I  don't  like  it.  How 
should  you  like  to  have  a  man  make  fun  of  you  to  your  little 
boy?" 

At  this  he  gave  a  great  laugh,  and  I  knew  at  once  that  he 
had  no  little  boy,  and  that  he  had  been  playing  off  a  fiction 
upon  me  throughout  the  whole  journey.  It  was  my  first  en 
counter  with  a  false  and  selfish  world.  To  find  in  my  hero  of 
the  three  horses  and  the  large  acquaintance  only  a  vulgar  ras 
cal  who  could  practice  upon  the  credulity  of  a  little  boy  was 
one  of  the  keenest  disappointments  I  had  ever  experienced. 

"  If  I  could  hurt  you,  I  would  strike  you,"  I  said  in  a  rage. 

"  Well,  boy,"  he  replied  almost  affectionately,  and  quite  ad 
miringly,  "  you  will  make  your  way,  if  you  have  that  sort  of 
thing  in  you.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it.  Upon  my  word,  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it.  I  take  it  all  back.  Your  father  is  a 


1 8  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

first-rate  man  for  heaven,  if  he  isn't  for  Bradford;  and  he's 
sure  to  go  there  when  he  moves  next,  and  I  should  like  to  be 
the  one  to  move  him,  but  I'm  afraid  they  wouldn't  let  me  in  to 
unload  the  goods." 

There  was  an  awful  humor  in  this  strange  speech  which  I  fully 
comprehended,  but  my  reverence  for  even  the  name  of  heaven 
was  so  profound  that  I  did  not  dare  to  laugh.  I  simply  said  : 
"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  so,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"Well,  then,  I  won't,  my  lad.  They  say  the  lame  and  the 
lazy  are  always  provided  for,  and  I  don't  know  why  the  lambs 
are  not  just  as  deserving.  You'll  all  get  through,  I  suppose  ; 
and  a  hundred  years  hence  there  will  be  no  difference." 

"  Who  provides  for  the  lame  and  the  lazy?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  now  you  have  me  tight,"  said  the  fellow  with  a  sigh. 
"  Somebody  up  there,  I  s'pose  ;  "  and  he  pointed  his  whip  up 
ward  with  a  little  toss. 

"Don't  you  know?"  I  inquired,  with  ingenuous  and  undis 
guised  wonder. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  never  saw  him.  I've  been  lazy  all  my 
life,  and  I  was  lame  once  for  a  year,  falling  from  this  very 
wagon,  and  a  mighty  rough  time  I  had  of  it,  too  ;  and  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned  it  has  been  a  business  of  looking  out  for 
number  one.  Nobody  ever  let  down  a  silver  spoon  full  of 
honey  to  me  ;  and  what  is  more,  I  don't  expect  it.  If  you 
have  that  sort  of  thing  in  your  head,  the  best  way  is  to  keep  it. 
You'll  be  happier,  I  reckon,  in  the  long  run  if  you  do;  but  I 
didn't  get  it  in  early,  and  it  is  too  late  now." 

"  Then  your  father  was  a  goat,  wasn't  he  ?  "  I  said,  with  a 
quick  impulse. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  with  a  loud  laugh.  "  Yes  indeed  ;  he  was 
a  goat  with  the  biggest  and  wickedest  pair  of  horns  you  ever 
saw.  Boy,  remember  what  I  tell  you.  Goodness  in  this  world 
is  a  thing  of  fathers  and  mothers.  I  haven't  any  children,  and 
I  shouldn't  have  any  right  to  them  if  I  had.  People  who  bring 
children  into  the  world  that  they  arc  not  fit  to  take  care  of,  and 
who  teach  them  nothing  but  drinking  and  fighting  and  swearing, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  19 

ought  to  be  shot.  If  I  had  had  your  start,  I  snould  be  all  right 
to-day." 

So  I  had  another  lesson, — two  lessons,  indeed, — one  in  the 
practical  infidelity  of  the  world,  and  one  in  social  and  family 
influence.  They  haunted  me  for  many  days,  and  brought  to  me 
a  deeper  and  a  more  intelligent  respect  for  my  father  and  his 
goodness  and  wisdom  than  I  had  ever  entertained. 

"  I  wish  I  were  well  down  that  hill,"  said  my  teamster  at  last, 
after  we  had  jolted  along  for  half  a  mile  without  a  word.  As 
he  said  this  he  looked  uneasily  around  upon  his  load,  which, 
with  the  long  transportation,  had  become  loose.  He  stopped 
his  horses,  and  gave  another  turn  to  the  pole  with  which  he 
had  strained  the  rope  that,  passing  lengthwise  and  crosswise  the 
load,  held  it  together.  Then  he  started  on  again.  I  watched 
him  closely,  for  I  saw  real  apprehension  on  his  face.  His 
horses  were  tired,  and  one  of  them  was  blind.  The  latter  fact 
gave  me  no  apprehension,  as  the  driver  had  taken  much  pains 
to  impress  upon  me  the  fact  that  the  best  horses  were  always 
blind.  He  only  regretted  that  he  could  not  secure  them  for 
his  whole  team,  principally  on  account  of  the  fact  that  not  hav 
ing  any  idea  how  far  they  had  traveled,  they  never  knew  when 
to  be  tired.  The  reason  seemed  sound,  and  I  had  accepted  it 
in  good  faith. 

When  we  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  that  descended  into 
the  town,  I  saw  that  he  had  some  reason  for  his  apprehension, 
and  I  should  have  alighted  and  taken  to  my  feet  if  I  had  not 
been  as  tired  as  the  horses.  But  I  had  faith  in  the  driver,  and 
faith  in  the  poor  brutes  he  drove,  and  so  remained  on  my  seat. 
Midway  the  hill,  the  blind  horse  stepped  upon  a  rolling  stone  ; 
and  all  1  remember  of  the  scene  which  immediately  followed 
Avas  a  confused  and  violent  struggle.  The  horse  fell  prone 
upon  the  road,  and  while  he  was  trying  in  vain  to  rise,  I  was 
conscious  that  my  companion  had  leaped  off.  Then  something 
struck  me  from  behind,  and  I  felt  myself  propelled  wildly  and 
resistlessly  through  the  air,  down  among  the  struggling  horses, 
after  which  I  knew  no  more. 


2O  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

When  consciousness  came  back  to  me  it  was  night,  and  I 
was  in  a  strange  house.  A  person  who  wakes  out  of  healthy 
sleep  recognizes  at  once  his  surroundings,  and  by  a  process  in 
which  volition  has  no  part  reunites  the  thread  of  his  life  with 
that  which  was  dropped  when  sleep  fell  upon  him.  The  un 
consciousness  which  follows  concussion  is  of  a  different  sort, 
and  obliterates  for  a  time  the  memory  of  a  whole  life. 

I  woke  upon  a  little  cot  on  the  floor.  Though  it  was  sum 
mer,  a  small  fire  had  been  kindled  on  the  hearth,  my  father  was 
chafing  my  hands,  my  brothers  and  sisters  were  looking  on  at 
a  distance  with  apprehension  and  distress  upon  their  faces,  and 
the  room  was  piled  with  furniture  in  great  confusion.  The 
whole  journey  was  gone  from  my  memory;  and  feeling  that  I 
could  not  lift  my  head  or  speak,  I  could  only  gasp  and  "shut  my 
eyes  and  wonder.  I  knew  my  father's  face,  and  knew  the 
family  faces  around  me,  but  I  had  no  idea  where  we  were,  or 
what  had  happened.  Something  warm  and  stinging  came  to 
my  lips,  and  I  swallowed  it  with  a  gulp  and  a  strangle.  Then 
I  became  conscious  of  a  voice  that  was  strange  to  me.  It  was 
deep  and  musical  and  strong,  yet  there  was  a  restraint  and  a 
conscious  modulation  in  its  tone,  as  if  it  were  trying  to  do  that 
to  which  it  was  not  well  used.  Its  possessor  was  evidently 
talking  to  my  mother,  who,  I  knew,  was  weeping. 

"  Ah  !  madam  !  Ah  !  madam  !  This  will  never  do — never 
do  !  "  I  heard  him  say.  "  You  are  tired.  Bless  me  !  You 
have  come  eighty  miles.  It  would  have  killed  Mrs.  Bradford. 
All  you  want  is  rest.  I  am  not  a  chicken,  and  such  a  ride  in 
such  a  wagon  as  yours  would  have  finished  me  up,  I'm  sure." 

"  Ah,  my  poor  boy,  Mr.  Bradford  !"  my  mother  moaned. 

"  The  boy  will  be  all  right  by  to-morrow  morning,"  he  re 
plied.  "He  is  opening  his  eyes  now.  You  can't  kill  such  a 
little  piece  of  stuff  as  that.  He  hasn't  a  broken  bone  in  his 
body.  Let  him  have  the  brandy  there,  and  keep  his  feet  warm. 
Those  little  chaps  are  never  good  for  anything  until  they  have 
had  the  daylight  knocked  out  of  them  half-a-dozen  times.  I 
wonder  what  has  became  of  that  rascal,  Dennis  !  " 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  21 

At  this  he  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  and  peered  out 
into  the  darkness.  I  saw  that  he  was  a  tall,  plainly  dressed 
man,  with  a  heavy  cane  in  his  hand.  One  thing  was  certain  : 
he  was  a  type  of  man  I  had  never  seen  before.  Perfectly  self- 
possessed,  entirely  at  home,  superintending  all  the  affairs  of  the 
house,  commanding,  advising,  reassuring,  inspiring,  he  was 
evidently  there  to  do  good.  In  my  speechless  helplessness,  my 
own  heart  went  out  to  him  in  perfect  trust.  I  had  the  fullest 
faith  in  what  he  said  about  myself  and  my  recovery,  though  at 
the  moment  I  had  no  idea  what  I  was  to  recover  from,  or, 
rather,  what  had  been  the  cause  of  my  prostration. 

"  There  the  vagabond  comes  at  last  ! "  said  the  stranger. 
He  threw  open  the  door,  and  Dennis,  a  smiling,  good-natured 
looking  Irishman,  walked  in  with  a  hamper  of  most  appetizing 
drinks  and  viands.  An  empty  table  was  ready  to  receive  them, 
and  hot  coffee,  milk,  bread,  and  various  cold  meats  were  placed 
one  after  another  upon  it. 

"  Set  some  chairs,  Dennis,  and  be  quick  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Bradford. 

The  chairs  were  set,  and  then  Mr.  Bradford  stooped  and 
offered  my  mother  his  arm,  in  as  grand  a  manner  as  if  he  were 
proffering  a  courtesy  to  the  Queen  of  England.  She  rose  and 
took  it,  and  he  led  her  to  the  table.  My  father  was  very  much 
touched,  and  I  saw  him  look  at  the  stranger  with  quivering  lips. 
This  was  a  gentleman — a  kind  of  man  he  had  read  about  in 
books,  but  not  the  kind  of  man  he  had  ever  been  brought  much 
in  contact  with.  This  tender  and  stately  attention  to  my  mother 
was  an  honor  which  was  very  grateful  to  him.  It  was  a  touch 
of  ideal  life,  too, — above  the  vulgar,  graceless  habits  of  those 
among  whom  his  life  had  been  cast.  Puritan  though  he  was, 
and  plain  and  undemonstrative  in  his  ways,  he  saw  the  beauty 
of  this  new  manner  with  a  thrill  that  brought  a  crimson  tint  to 
his  hollow  cheeks.  Both  he  and  my  mother  tried  to  express  their 
thanks,  but  Mr.  Bradford  declared  that  he  was  the  lucky  man 
in  the  whole  matter.  It  was  so  fortunate  that  he  had  happened 
to  be  near  when  the  accident  occurred  ;  and  though  the  service 


22  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

he  had  rendered  was  a  very  small  one,  it  had  been  a  genuine 
pleasure  to  him  to  render  it.  Then,  seeing  that  no  one  touched 
the  food,  he  turned  with  a  quick  instinct  to  Dennis,  and  said  : 
"  By  the  way,  Dennis,  let  me  see  you  at  the  door  a  moment." 

Dennis  followed  him  out,  and  then  my  father  bowed  his  head, 
and  thanked  the  Good  Giver  for  the  provision  made  for  his 
family,  for  the  safety  of  his  boy,  and  for  the  prosperous  journey, 
and  ended  by  asking  a  blessing  upon  the  meal. 

When,  after  a  considerable  interval,  Mr.  Bradford  and  his 
servant  reappeared,  it  was  only  on  the  part  of  the  former  to  say 
that  Dennis  would  remain  to  assist  in  putting  the  beds  into  such 
shape  that  the  family  could  have  a  comfortable  night's  rest,  and 
to  promise  to  look  in  late  in  the  morning.  He  shook  hands  in 
a  hearty  way  with  my  father  and  mother,  said  "good-night"  to 
the  children,  and  then  came  and  looked  at  me.  He  smiled  a 
kind,  good-humored  smile,  and  shaking  his  long  finger  at  me, 
said  :  "  Keep  quiet,  my  little  man  :  you'll  be  all  right  in  the 
morning."  Then  he  went  away,  and  after  the  closing  of  the 
door  I  heard  his  brisk,  strong  tread  away  into  the  darkness. 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  such  men  as  Mr.  Bradford 
realize  how  strong  an  impression  they  make  upon  the  minds  of 
children.  He  undoubtedly  realized  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a 
family  of  children,  beginning  with  my  father  and  mother — as 
truly  children  as  any  of  us ;  but  it  is  impossible  that  he  could 
know  what  an  uplift  he  gave  to  the  life  to  which  he  had  minis 
tered.  The  sentiment  which  he  inspired  in  me  was  as  truly 
that  of  worship  as  any  of  which  I  was  capable.  The  grand 
man,  with  his  stalwart  frame,  his  apparent  control  of  unlimited 
means,  his  self-possession,  his  commanding  manner,  his  kindness 
and  courtesy,  lifted  him  in  my  imagination  almost  to  the  dig 
nity  of  a  God.  I  wondered  if  I  could  ever  become  such  a  man 
as  he  !  I  learned  in  after  years  that  even  he  had  his  weaknesses, 
but  I  never  ceased  to  entertain  for  him  the  most  profound  respect. 
Indeed,  I  had  good  and  special  reason  for  this,  beyond  what  at 
present  appears. 

After  he  departed  I  watched  Dennis.     If  Mr.  Bradford  was 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  23 

my  first  gentleman,  Dennis  was  my  first  Irishman.  Oh,  sweet 
first  time  !  let  me  exclaim  again.  I  have  never  seen  an  Irish 
man  since  who  so  excited  my  admiration  and  interest. 

"  Me  leddy,"  said  Dennis,  imitating  as  well  as  he  could  the 
grand  manner  of  his  master,  "if  ye'll  tek  an  Irish  b'y's  advice, 
ye'll  contint  yoursilf  with  a  shake-down  for  the  night,  and  set 
up  the  frames  in  the  marnin'.  I'm  thinkin'  the  Squire  will  lit 
me  give  ye  a  lift  thin,  an  it's  slape  ye're  wantin'  now." 

He  saw  the  broad  grin  coming  upon  the  faces  of  the  children 
as  he  proceeded,  and  joined  in  their  unrestrained  giggle  when 
he  finished. 

"Ah!  there's  nothing  like  a  fine  Irish  lad  for  makin' little 
gurr'ls  happy.  It's  better  nor  whisky  any  day." 

My  poor  father  and  mother  were  much  distressed,  fearing 
that  the  proprieties  had  been  trampled  on  by  the  laughing 
children,  and  apologized  to  Dennis  for  their  rudeness. 

"  Och  !  niver  mind  'em.  An  Irish  b'y  is  a  funny  bird  any 
way,  and  they're  not  used  to  his  chirrup  yet." 

In  the  meantime  he  had  lighted  half  a  dozen  candles  for  as 
many  rooms,  and  was  making  quick  work  with  the  bedding. 
At  length,  with  the  help  of  my  mother,  he  had  arranged  beds 
enough  to  accommodate  the  family  for  the  night,  and  with  many 
professions  of  good-will,  and  with  much  detail  of  experience 
concerning  moving  in  his  own  country,  he  was  about  to  bid  us 
all  "good-night,"  when  he  paused  at  the  door  and  said: 
"Thank  a  blind  horse  for  good  luck  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Dennis  ?  "  inquired  my  father. 

"Is  it  what  I  mane?  ye  ask  me.  Wasn't  it  a  blind  horse 
that  fell  on  the  hill,  and  threw  the  lad  aff  jist  where  the  Squire 
was  standin,'  and  didn't  he  get  him  in  his  arms  the  furr'st  one, 
and  wasn't  that  the  beginnin'  of  it  all?  Thank  a  blind  horse 
for  good  luck,  1  till  ye.  The  Squire  can  no  more  drap  you 
now  than  he  can  drap  his  blissid  ould  hearr't,  though  it's  likely 
I'll  have  to  do  the  most  of  it  mesilf." 

My  mother  assured  Dennis  that  she  was  sorry  to  give  him 
the  slightest  trouble. 


24  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Never  mind  me,  me  leddy.  Let  an  Irish  b'y  alone  foi 
bein'  tinder  of  himsilf.  Do  1  look  as  if  I  had  too  much  worr'k 
and  my  bafe  comin'  to  me  in  thin  slices  ?"  And  he  spread 
out  his  brawny  hands  for  inspection. 

The  children  giggled,  and  he  went  out  with  a  "good-night." 
Then  he  reopened  the  door,  and  putting  only  his  head  in,  said, 
"  Remimbcr  what  I  till  ye.  A  blind  horse  for  good  luck;" 
and,  nodding  his  head  a  dozen  times,  he  shut  the  door  agair 
and  disappeared  for  the  night. 

When  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  all  came  back  to  me — 
the  long  ride,  the  fearful  experience  upon  the  hill,  and  the 
observations  of  the  previous  evening.  We  were  indebted  to 
the  thoughtful  courtesy  of  Mr.  Bradford  for  our  breakfast,  and, 
after  Dennis  had  been  busy  during  half  the  morning  in  assisting  to 
put  the  house  in  ordjr,  I  saw  my  gentleman  again.  The  only 
inconvenience  from  which  I  suffered  was  a  sense  of  being 
bruised  all  over  ;  and  when  he  came  in  I  greeted  him  with  such 
a  smile  of  hearty  delight  that  he  took  my  cheeks  in  his  hands 
and  kissed  me.  How  many  thousand  times  I  had  longed  for 
such  an  expression  of  affection  from  my  father,  and  longed  in 
vain  !  It  healed  me  and  made  me  happy.  Then  I  had  an 
opportunity  to  study  him  more  closely.  He  was  fresh  from 
his  toilet,  and  wore  the  cleanest  linen.  His  neck  was  envel 
oped  and  his  chin  propped  by  the  old-fashioned  "  stock "  of 
those  days,  his  waistcoat  was  white,  and  his  dark  gray  coat  and 
trousers  had  evidently  passed  under  Dennis's  brush  in  the 
early  morning.  A  heavy  gold  chain  with  a  massive  seal  de 
pended  from  his  watch-pocket,  and  he  carried  in  his  hand  what 
seemed  to  be  his  constant  companion,  his  heavy  cane.  At 
this  distance  of  time  I  find  it  difficult  to  describe  his  face,  be 
cause  it  impressed  me  as  a  whole,  and  not  by  its  separate  feat 
ures.  His  eyes  were  dark,  pleasant,  and  piercing — so  much 
I  remember ;  but  the  rest  of  his  face  I  cannot  describe.  I 
trusted  it  wholly  ;  but,  as  I  recall  the  man,  1  hear  more  than  I 
see.  Impressive  as  was  his  presence,  his  wonderful  voice  was 
his  finest  interpreter  to  me.  I  lingered  upon  his  tones  and 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  25 

cadences  as  I  have  often  listened  to  the  voice  of  a  distant  water 
fall,  lifted  and  lowered  by  the  wind.  I  can  hear  it  to-day  as 
plainly  as  I  heard  it  then. 

During  the  visit  of  that  morning  he  learned  the  situation  of 
the  family,  and  comprehended  with  genuine  pain  the  helpless 
ness  of  my  father.  That  he  was  interested  in  my  father  I  could 
see  very  plainly.  His  talk  was  not  in  the  manner  of  working- 
men,  and  the  conversation  was  discursive  enough  to  display  his 
intelligence.  The  gentleman  was  evidently  puzzled.  Here 
was  a  plain  man  who  had  seen  no  society,  who  had  lived  for 
years  among  the  woods  and  hills  ;  yet  the  man  of  culture  could 
start  no  subject  without  meeting  an  intelligent  response. 

Mr.  Bradford  ascertained  that  my  father  had  but  little  money, 
that  he  had  come  to  Bradford  with  absolutely  no  provision  but 
a  house  to  move  into,  that  he  had  no  definite  plan  of  business, 
and  that  his  desire  for  a  better  future  for  his  children  was  the 
motive  that  had  induced  him  to  migrate  from  his  mountain 
home. 

After  he  had  made  a  full  confession  of  his  circumstances, 
with  the  confiding  simplicity  of  a  boy,  Mr.  Bradford  looked  at  him 
with  a  sort  of  mute  wonder,  and  then  rose  and  walked  the  room. 

"  I  confess  I  don't  understand  it,  Mr.  Bonnicastle,"  said  he, 
stopping  before  him,  and  bringing  down  his  cane.  "  You  want 
your  children  to  be  educated  better  than  you  are,  but  you  are 
a  thousand  times  better  than  your  circumstances.  Men  are 
happiest  when  they  are  in  harmony  with  their  circumstances. 
I  venture  to  say  that  the  men  you  left  behind  you  were  con 
tented  enough.  What  is  the  use  of  throwing  children  out  of 
all  pleasant  relations  with  their  condition  ?  I  don't  blame  you 
for  wanting  to  have  your  children  educated,  but  I  am  sure  that 
educating  working  people  is  a  mistake.  Work  is  their  life  ; 
and  they  worked  a  great  deal  better  and  were  a  great  deal  hap 
pier  when  they  knew  less.  Now  isn't  it  so,  Mr.  Bonnicastle  ? 
isn't  it  so?" 

Quite  unwittingly  Mr.  Bradford  had  touched  my  father's 
sensitive  point,  and  as  there  was  something  in  the  gentleman's 


26  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

manner  that  inspired  the  conversational  faculties  of  all  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact,  my  father's  tongue  was  loosed,  and 
it  did  not  stop  until  the  gentleman  had  no  more  to  say. 

"  Well,  if  we  differ,  we'll  agree  to  differ,"  said  he,  at  last ; 
"  but  now  you  want  work,  and  I  will  speak  to  some  of  my 
friends  about  you.  Bonnicastle — Peter  Bonnicastle,  I  think  ?  " 

My  father  nodded,  and  said — "a  name  I  inherit  from  I  do 
not  know  how  many  great-grandfathers." 

"  Your  ancestor  was  not  Peter  Bonnicastle  of  Roxbury?  " 

"  That  is  what  they  tell  me." 

"  Peter  Bonnicastle  of  Roxbury  !  " 

"Ay,  Peter  Bonnicastle  of  Roxbury." 

"  By  Jove,  man  !  Do  you  know  you've  got  the  bluest  blood 
in  your  veins  of  any  man  in  Bradford  ?" 

I  shall  never  forget  the  pleased  and  proud  expression  that 
came  into  the  faces  of  my  father  and  mother  as  these  words 
were  uttered.  What  blue  blood  was,  and  in  what  its  excel 
lence  consisted,  I  did  not  know ;  but  it  was  something  to  be 
proud  of — that  was  evident. 

"  Peter  Bonnicastle  of  Roxbury  !  Ah  yes  !  Ah  yes  !  I  under 
stand  it.  It's  all  plain  enough  now.  You  are  a  gentleman 
without  knowing  it — a  gentleman  trying  in  a  blind  way  to  get 
back  to  a  gentleman's  conditions.  Well,  perhaps  you  will ;  I 
shall  not  wonder  if  you  do." 

It  was  my  first  observation  of  the  reverence  for  blood  that  I 
have  since  found  to  be  nearly  universal.  The  show  of  con 
tempt  for  it  which  many  vulgar  people  make  is  always  an  affec 
tation,  unless  they  are  very  vulgar  indeed.  My  father,  who, 
more  than  any  man  I  ever  knew,  respected  universal  human 
ity,  and  ignored  class  distinctions,  was  as  much  delighted  and 
elevated  with  the  recognition  of  his  claims  to  good  family 
blood  as  if  he  had  fallen  heir  to  the  old  family  wealth. 

"And  what  is  this  lad's  name?"  inquired  Mr.  Bradford, 
pointing  over  his  shoulder  toward  me. 

"My  name  is  Arthur  Bonnicas''e,"  I  replied,  taking  the 
words  out  of  my  father's  mouth. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  27 

"  And  Arthur  Bonnicastle  has  a  pair  of  ears  and  a  tongue," 
responded  Mr.  Bradford,  turning  to  me  with  an  amused  expres 
sion  upon  his  face. 

I  took  the  response  as  a  reproof,  and  blushed  painfully. 

"  Tut,  tut,  there  is  no  harm  done,  my  lad,"  said  he,  rising 
and  coming  to  a  chair  near  me,  and  regarding  me  very  kindly. 
"  You  know  you  had  neither  last  night,"  he  added,  feeling  my 
hand  and  forehead  to  learn  if  there  were  any  feverish  reaction. 

I  was  half  sitting,  half  lying  on  a  lounge  near  the  window, 
and  he  changed  his  seat  from  the  chair  to  the  lounge  so  that 
he  sat  over  me,  looking  down  into  my  face.  "  Now,"  said  he, 
regarding  me  very  tenderly,  and  speaking  gently,  in  a  tone 
that  was  wholly  his  own,  "  we  will  have  a  little  talk  all  by  our 
selves.  What  have  you  been  thinking  about  ?  Your  mouth 
has  been  screwed  up  into  ever-so-many  interrogation  points 
ever  since  your  father  and  I  began  to  talk." 

I  laughed  at  the  odd  fancy,  and  told  him  I  should  like  to 
ask  him  a  few  questions. 

"Of  course  you  would.  Boys  are  always  full  of  questions. 
Ask  as  many  as  you  please." 

"I  should  like  to  ask  you  if  you  own  this  town,"  I  began. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"Because,"  I  answered,  "you  have  the  same  name  the  town 
has." 

"No,  my  lad,  I  own  very  little  of  it  ;  but  my  great-grand 
father  owned  all  the  land  it  stands  on,  and  the  town  was 
named  for  him,  or  rather  he  named  it  for  himself." 

"  Was  his  blood  blue  ?  "  1  inquired. 

He  smiled  and  whistled  in  a  comical  way,  and  said  he  was 
afraid  that  it  wasn't  quite  so  blue  as  it  might  have  been. 

"  Is  yours  ?" 

"Well,  that's  a  tough  question,"  he  responded.  "I  fancy 
the  family  blood  has  been  growing  blue  for  several  generations, 
and  perhaps  there's  a  little  indigo  in  me." 

"Do  you  eat  anything  in  particular?"  I  inquired. 

"  No,  nothing  in  particular  :  it  isn't  made  in  that  way." 


28  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  How  is  it  made  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"That's  a  tough  question,  too,"  he  replied. 

"Oh  !  if  you  can't  answer  it,"  I  said,  "don't  trouble  your 
self;  but  do  you  think  Jesus  Christ  had  blue  blood  ?" 

"  Why  yes — yes  indeed.  Wasn't  he  the  son  of  David — 
when  he  got  back  to  him — and  wasn't  David  a  King?" 

"Oh!  that's  what  you  mean  by  blue  blood; — and  that's 
another  thing,"  I  said. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  another  thing,  my  boy?"  inquired 
Mr.  Bradford. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  I  said,  "  that  my  father  was  a  carpenter, 
and  so  was  his  ;  and  so  his  blood  was  blue  and  mine  too.  And 
there  are  lots  of  other  things  that  might  have  been  true." 

"Tell  me  all  about  them,"  said  my  interlocutor.  "What 
have  you  been  thinking  about  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  I  said,  "  I've  been  thinking  that  if  my  father  had  lived 
when  his  father  lived,  and  if  they  had  lived  in  the  same  country, 
perhaps  they  would  have  worked  in  the  same  shop  and  on  the 
same  houses  ;  and  then  perhaps  Jesus  Christ  and  I  should  have 
playett  together  with  the  blocks  and  shavings.  And  then, 
when  he  grew  up  and  became  so  wonderful,  I  should  have  grown 
up  and  perhaps  been  one  of  the  apostles,  and  written  part  of 
the  Bible,  and  preached  and  healed  the  sick,  and  been  a  martyr, 
and  gone  to  heaven,  and — and — I  don't  know  how  many  other 
things." 

"  Well,  I  rather  think  you  would,  by  Jove,"  he  said,  rising 
to  his  feet,  impulsively. 

"  One  thing  more,  please,"  I  said,  stretching  my  hands  up  to 
him.  He  sat  down  again,  and  put  his  face  close  to  mine.  "I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  ;  and  he  whispered  :  "Thank  you, 
my  dear  boy  :  love  me  always.  Thank  you." 

Then  he  kissed  me  again  and  turned  to  my  father.  "  I  think 
you  are  entirely  right  in  coming  to  Bradford,"  I  heard  him  say. 
"  I  don't  think  I  should  like  to  see  this  little  chap  going  back 
to  the  woods  again,  even  if  I  could  have  my  own  way  about  it." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  29 

For  some  minutes  he  walked  the  room  backward  and  forward, 
sometimes  pausing  and  looking  out  of  the  window.  My  father 
saw  that  he  was  absorbed,  and  said  nothing.  At  length  he 
stopped  suddenly  before  my  father  and  said:  "This  is  the 
strangest  affair  I  ever  knew.  Here  you  come  out  of  the  woods 
with  this  large  family,  without  the  slightest  idea  what  you  are 
going  to  do — with  no  provision  for  the  future  whatever.  How 
did  you  suppose  you  were  going  to  get  along  ?  " 

How  well  I  remember  the  quiet,  confident  smile  with  which 
my  father  received  his  strong,  blunt  words,  and  the  trembling 
tone  in  which  he  replied  to  them  ! 

"  Mr.  Bradford,"  said  he,  "  none  of  us  takes  care  of  himself. 
I  am  not  a  wise  man  in  worldly  things,  and  I  am  obliged  to 
trust  somebody ;  and  I  know  of  no  one  so  wise  as  He  who 
knows  all  things,  or  so  kind  as  He  who  loves  all  men.  I 
do  the  best  I  can,  and  I  leave  the  rest  to  Him.  He  has  never 
failed  me  in  the  great  straits  of  my  life,  and  He  never  will.  I 
have  already  thanked  Him  for  sending  you  to  me  yesterday ; 
and  I  believe  that  by  His  direction  you  are  to  be,  as  you  have 
already  been,  a  great  blessing  to  me.  I  shall  seek  for  work, 
and  with  such  strength  as  I  have  I  shall  do  it,  and  do  it  well.  I 
shall  have  troubles  and  trials,  but  I  know  that  none  will  come 
that  I  cannot  transform,  and  that  I  am  not  expected  to  trans 
form,  into  a  blessing.  If  I  am  not  rich  in  money  when  the 
end  comes,  I  shall  be  rich  in  something  better  than  money." 

Mr.  Bradford  took  my  father's  hand,  and  shaking  it  warmly, 
responded  :  "You  are  already  rich  in  that  which  is  better  than 
money.  A  faith  like  yours  is  wealth  inestimable.  You  are  a 
thousand  times  richer  than  I  am  to-day.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Bonnicastle,  but  this  is  really  quite  new  to  me.  1  have 
heard  cant  and  snuffle,  and  I  know  the  difference.  If  the  Lord 
doesn't  take  care  of  such  a  man  as  you  are,  he  doesn't  stand 
by  his  friends,  that's  all." 

My  father's  reverence  was  offended  by  this  familiar  way  of 
speaking  a  name  which  was  ineffably  sacred  to  him,  and  he 
made  no  reply.  I  could  see,  too,  that  he  felt  that  the  humility 


30  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

with  which  he  had  spoken  was  not  fully  appreciated  by  Mr. 
Bradford. 

Suddenly  breaking  the  thread  of  the  conversation,  Mr.  Brad 
ford  said  :  "  By  the  way,  who  is  your  landlord  ?  I  ought  to 
know  who  owns  this  little  house,  but  I  don't." 

"  The  landlord  is  not  a  landlord  at  all,  I  believe.  The  owner 
is  a  landlady,  though  I  have  never  seen  her — a  Mrs.  Sanderson 
• — Ruth  Sanderson." 

"  Oh !  I  know  her  well,  and  ought  to  have  known  that  this  is 
her  property,"  said  Mr.  Bradford.  "  I  have  nothing  against  the 
lady,  though  she  is  a  little  odd  in  her  ways  ;  but  I  am  sorry 
you  have  a  woman  to  deal  with,  for,  so  far  as  I  have  observed, 
a  business  woman  is  a  screw  by  rule,  and  a  woman  without  a 
business  faculty  and  with  business  to  do  is  a  screw  without 
rule." 

In  the  midst  of  the  laugh  that  followed  Mr.  Bradford's 
axiomatic  statement  he  turned  to  the  window,  and  exclaimed  : 
"  Well,  I  declare  !  here  she  comes." 

I  looked  quickly  and  saw  a  curious  turn-out  approaching  the 
house.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  chaise,  set  low  between  two 
high  wheels,  drawn  by  a  heavy-limbed  and  heavy-gaited  black 
horse,  and  driven  by  a  white-haired,  thin-faced  old  man.  Be 
side  the  driver  sat  a  little  old  woman  ;  and  the  first  impression 
given  me  by  the  pair  was  that  the  vehicle  was  much  too  large 
for  them,  for  it  seemed  to  toss  them  up  and  catch  them,  and  to 
knock  them  together  by  its  constant  motion.  The  black  horse, 
who  had  a  steady  independent  trot,  that  regarded  neither  stones 
nor  ruts,  made  directly  for  our  door,  stopped  when  he  found 
the  place  he  wanted,  and  then  gave  a  preliminary  twitch  at  the 
reins  and  reached  down  his  head  for  a  nibble  at  the  grass. 
The  man  sat  still,  looking  straight  before  him,  and  left  the  little 
old  woman  to  alight  without  assistance  ;  and  she  did  alight  in 
a  way  which  showed  that  she  had  little  need  of  it.  She  was 
dressed  entirely  in  black,  with  the  exception  of  the  white 
widow's  cap  drawn  tightly  around  a  little  face  set  far  back 
in  a  deep  bonnet.  She  had  a  quick,  wiry,  nervous  way  in 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  31 

-* 

walking ;  and  coming  up  the  path  that  led  through  a  little  gar 
den  lying  between  the  house  and  the  street,  she  cast  furtive 
glances  left  and  right,  as  if  gathering  the  condition  of  her  prop 
erty.  Then  followed  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door. 

The  absorbed  and  embarrassed  condition  of  my  father  and 
mother  was  evident  in  the  fact  that  neither  started  to  open  the 
door;  but  Dennis,  coming  quickly  in  from  an  adjoining  room 
where  he  was  busy,  opened  it,  and  Mr.  Bradford  went  forward 
to  meet  her  in  the  narrow  hall.  He  shook  her  hand  in  his 
own  cordial  and  stately  way,  and  said  jocularly:  "Well, 
Madame,  you  see  we  have  taken  possession  of  your  snug  little 
house." 

Her  lips,  which  were  compressed  and  thin  as  if  she  were 
suffering  pain,  parted  in  a  faint  smile,  and  her  dark,  searching 
eyes  looked  up  to  him  in  a  kind  of  questioning  wonder.  There 
was  nothing  in  her  face  that  attracted  me.  I  remember  only 
that  I  felt  moved  to  pity  her,  she  seemed  so  small,  and 
lonely,  and  careworn.  Her  hands  were  the  tiniest  I  had  ever 
seen,  and  were  merely  little  bundles  of  bones  in  the  shape  of 
hands. 

"  Let  me  present  your  tenants  to  you,  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and 
commend  them  to  your  good  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Bradford.  • 

She  stood  quietly  and  bowed  to  my  father  and  mother,  who 
had  risen  to  greet  her.  I  was  young,  but  quick  in  my  instincts, 
and  I  saw  at  once  that  she  regarded  a  tenant  as  an  inferior, 
with  whom  it  would  not  do  to  be  on  terms  of  social  famili 
arity. 

"  Do  you  find  the  house  comfortable  ?  "  she  inquired,  speak 
ing  in  a  quick  way  and  addressing  my  father. 

"  Apparently  so,"  he  answered  ;  and  then  he  added  :  "  we 
are  hardly  settled  yet,  but  I  think  we  shall  get  along  very  well 
in  it." 

"With  your  leave  I  will  go  over  it,  and  see  for  myself,"  she 
said  quietly. 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  responded  my  father.  "  My  wife  will  go 
with  you." 


32  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  If  she  will ;  but  I  want  you,  too." 

They  went  off  together,  and  I  heard  them  for  some  minutes 
talking  around  in  the  different  parts  of  the  house. 

"  Any  more  questions  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Bradford  with  a 
smile,  looking  over  to  where  I  sat  on  the  lounge. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  1  replied.  "  I  have  been  wondering  whether 
that  lady  has  a  crack  in  the  top  of  her  head." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had  a  very,  very  small 
one,"  he  replied  ;  "and  now  what  started  that  fancy?  " 

"Because,"  I  continued,  "if  she  is  what  you  call  a  screw,  I 
was  wondering  how  they  turned  her." 

"  Well,  my  boy,  it  is  so  very  small  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Brad 
ford,  putting  on  a  quizzical  look,  "  that  I'm  afraid  they  can't 
turn  her  at  all." 

When  the  lady  came  back  she  seemed  to  be  ready  to  go 
away  at  once  ;  but  Mr.  Bradford  detained  her  with  the  story  of 
the  previous  night's  experiences,  including  the  accident  that 
had  happened  to  me.  She  listened  sharply,  and  then  came 
over  to  where  I  was  sitting,  and  asked  me  if  1  were  badly  hurt. 
I  assured  her  I  was  not.  Then  she  took  one  of  my  plump 
hands  in  her  own  little  grasp,  and  looked  at  me  in  a  strange, 
intense  way  without  saying  a  word. 

Mr.  Bradford  interrupted  her,  with  an  eye  to  business,  by 
saying  :  "  Mr.  Bonnicastle,  your  new  tenant  here,  is  a  carpen 
ter  ;  and  I  venture  to  say  that  he  is  a  good  one.  We  must  do 
what  we  can  to  introduce  him  to  business." 

She  turned  with  a  quick  motion  on  her  heel,  and  bent  her 
eyes  on  my  father.  "  Bonnicastle  ? "  said  she,  with  almost  a 
fierce  interrogation. 

"Oh!  I  supposed  you  knew  his  name,  Mrs.  Sanderson," 
said  Mr.  Bradford;  and  then  he  added,  "but  I  presume  your 
agent  did  not  tell  you." 

She  made  no  sign  to  show  that  she  had  heard  a  word  that 
Mr.  Bradford  had  said. 

"Peter  Bonnicastle,"  said  my  father,  breaking  the  silence 
with  the  only  words  he  could  find. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  33 

"  Peter  Bonnicastle  !  "  she  repeated  almost  mechanically, 
and  continued  standing  as  if  dazed. 

She  stood  with  her  back  toward  me,  and  I  could  only  guess 
at  her  expression,  or  the  strangely  curious  interest  of  the  scene, 
by  its  reflection  in  Mr.  Bradford's  face.  He  sat  uneasily  in  his 
chair,  and  pressed  the  head  of  his  cane  against  his  chin,  as  if 
he  were  using  a  mechanical  appliance  to  keep  his  mouth  shut. 
He  knew  the  woman  before  him,  and  was  determined  to  be 
wise.  Subsequently  I  learned  the  reason  of  it  all — of  his 
silence  at  the  time,  of  his  reticence  for  months  and  even  years 
afterward,  and  of  what  sometimes  seemed  to  me  and  to  my 
father  like  coolness  and  neglect. 

The  silence  was  oppressive,  and  my  father,  remembering 
the  importance  which  Mr.  Bradford  had  attached  to  the  fact, 
and  moved  by  a  newly  awakened  pride,  said  :  "  I  am  one  of 
many  Peters,  they  tell  me,  the  first  of  whom  settled  in  Roxbury. 

"Roxbury?"  and  she  took  one  or  two  steps  toward  him. 
"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure,"  responded  my  father. 

She  made  no  explanation,  but  started  for  the  door,  dropping 
a  little  bow  as  she  turned  away.  Mr.  Bradford  was  on  his  feet 
in  a  moment,  and,  opening  the  door  for  her,  accompanied  her 
into  the  street.  I  watched  them  from  the  window.  They 
paused  just  far  enough  from  the  driver  of  the  chaise  to  be  be 
yond  his  hearing,  and  conversed  for  several  minutes.  I  could 
not  doubt  that  Mr.  Bradford  was  giving  her  his  impression  of 
us.  Then  he  helped  her  into  the  chaise,  and  the  little  gray- 
haired  driver,  gathering  up  his  reins,  and  giving  a  great  pull  at 
the  head  of  the  black  horse,  which  seemed  fastened  to  a 
particularly  strong  tuft  of  grass,  turned  up  the  street  and  drove 
off,  tossing  and  jolting  in  the  way  he  came. 

There  was  a  strong,  serious,  excited  expression  on  Mr. 
Bradford's  face  as  he  came  in.  "My  friend,"  said  he,  taking 
my  father's  hand,  "  this  is  a  curious  affair.  I  cannot  explain 
it  to  you,  and  the  probabilities  are  that  I  shall  have  less  to  do 

with   and  for   you  than  I  supposed  1  might  have.     Be  sure, 
2* 


34  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

however,  that  I  shall  always  be  interested  in  your  prosperity ; 
and  never  hesitate  to  come  to  me  if  you  are  in  serious  trouble. 
And  now  let  me  ask  you  never  to  mention  my  name  to  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  with  praise  ;  never  tell  her  if  I  render  you  a 
service.  I  know  the  lady,  and  I  think  it  quite  likely  that  you 
will  hear  from  her  in  a  few  days.  In  the  mean  time  you  will 
be  busy  in  making  your  family  comfortable  in  your  new  home." 
Then  he  spoke  a  cheerful  word  to  my  mother,  and  bade  us  all 
a  good-morning,  only  looking  kindly  at  me  instead  of  bestow 
ing  upon  me  the  coveted  and  expected  kiss. 

When  he  was  gone,  my  father  and  mother  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  significant  glance,  and  I  waited  to  hear  what  they 
would  say.  If  I  have  said  little  about  my  mother,  it  is  because 
she  had  very  little  to  say  for  herself.  She  was  a  weary,  worn 
woman,  who  had  parted  with  her  vitality  in  the  bearing  and 
rearing  of  her  children  and  in  hard  and  constant  care  and  work. 
Life  had  gone  wrong  with  her.  She  had  a  profound  respect  for 
practical  gifts,  and  her  husband  did  not  possess  them.  She 
had  long  since  ceased  to  hope  for  anything  good  in  life,  and  her 
face  had  taken  on  a  sad,  dejected  expression,  which  it  never 
lost  under  any  circumstances.  To  my  father's  abounding  hope 
fulness  she  always  opposed  her  obstinate  hopelessness.  This 
was  partly  a  matter  of  temperament,  as  well  as  a  result  of 
disappointment.  I  learned  early  that  she  had  very  little  faith 
in  me,  or  rather  in  any  natural  gifts  of  mine  that  in  the  future 
might  retrieve  the  fortunes  of  the  family.  I  had  too  many  of 
the  characteristics  of  my  father. 

I  see  the  two  now  as  they  sat  thinking  and  talking  over  the 
events  and  acquaintances  of  the  evening  and  the  morning  as 
plainly  as  I  saw  them  then — my  father  with  his  blue  eyes  all 
alight,  and  his  cheeks  touched  with  the  Hush  of  excitement,  and 
my  mother  with  her  distrustful  face,  depreciating  and  question 
ing  everything.  She  liked  Mr.  Bradford.  Mr.  Bradford  was  a 
gentleman  ;  but  what  had  gentlemen  to  do  with  them  ?  It  was 
all  very  well  to  talk  about  family,  but  what  was  family  good  for 
without  money  ?  Mr.  Bradford  had  his  own  affairs  to  attend  to, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  35 

and  we  should  see  precious  little  more  of  him  !  As  for  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  she  did  not  like  her  at  all.  Poor  people  would  get 
very  little  consideration  from  an  old  woman  whose  hand  was 
too  good  to  be  given  to  a  stranger  who  happened  to  be  her 
tenant. 

I  have  wondered  often  how  my  father  maintained  his  courage 
and  faith  with  such  a  drag  upon  them  as  my  mother's  morbid 
sadness  imposed,  but  in  truth  they  were  proof  against  every  de 
pressing  influence.  Out  of  every  suggestion  of  possible  good 
fortune  he  built  castles  that  filled  his  imagination  with  almost  a 
childish  delight.  He  believed  that  something  good  was  soon 
to  come  out  of  it  all,  and  he  was  really  bright  and  warm  in  the 
smile  of  that  Providence  which  had  manifested  itself  to  him  in 
these  new  acquaintances.  I  pinned  my  faith  to  my  father's 
sleeve,  and  believed  as  fully  and  as  far  as  he  did.  There  was 
a  rare  sympathy  between  us.  The  great  sweet  boy  that  he  was 
and  the  little  boy  that  I  was,  were  one  in  a  charming  commu 
nion.  Oh  God  !  that  he  should  be  gone  and  I  here  !  He  has 
been  in  heaven  long  enough  to  have  won  his  freedom,  and  I  am 
sure  we  shall  kiss  when  we  meet  again  ! 

Before  the  week  closed,  the  gray-haired  old  servant  of  Mrs. 
Sanderson  knocked  at  the  door,  and  brought  a  little  note.  It 
was  from  his  mistress,  and  read  thus,  for  I  copy  from  the  faded 
document  itself: — 

•  "  THE  MANSION,  BRADFORD. 
"  MR.  PETER  BONNICASTLE  : — 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  here  next  Monday  morning,  in  regard  to  some 
repairs  about  The  Mansion.  Come  early,  and  if  your  little  boy  Arthur  is 
well  enough  you  may  bring  him. 

"  RUTH  SANDERSON." 

The  note  was  read  aloud,  and  it  conveyed  to  my  mind  in 
stantaneously  a  fact  which  I  did  not  mention,  but  which  filled 
me  with  strange  excitement  and  pleasure.  I  remembered  that 
my  name  was  not  once  mentioned  while  Mrs.  Sanderson  was  in 
the  house.  She  had  learned  it  therefore  from  Mr.  Bradford, 


36  Arthur  fionnicastle. 

while  talking  at  the  door.  Mr.  Bradford  liked  me,  I  knew,  and 
he  had  spoken  well  of  me  to  her.  What  would  come  of  it  all  ? 
So,  with  the  same  visionary  hopefulness  that  characterized  my 
father,  I  plunged  into  a  sea  of  dreams  on  which  I  floated  over 
depths  paved  with  treasure,  and  under  skies  bright  with  promise, 
until  Monday  morning  dawned.  When  the  early  breakfast  was 
finished,  and  my  father  with  unusual  fervor  of  feeling  had  com 
mended  his  family  and  himself  to  the  keeping  and  the  blessing 
of  heaven,  we  started  forth,  he  and  I,  hand  in  hand,  with  as 
cheerful  anticipations  as  if  we  were  going  to  a  feast. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I     VISIT     AN     OGRESS     AND     A     GIANT     IN     THEIR     ENCHANTED 

CASTLE. 

"THE  MANSION"  of  Mrs.  Sanderson  was  a  long  half-mile 
away  from  us,  situated  upon  the  hill  that  overlooked  the  little 
city.  It  appeared  grand  in  the  distance,  and  commanded  the 
most  charming  view  of  town,  meadow  and  river  imaginable. 
We  passed  Mr.  Bradford's  house  on  the  way — a  plain,  rich,  un 
pretending  dwelling — and  received  from  him  a  hearty  good- 
morning,  with  kind  inquiries  for  my  mother,  as  he  stood  in  his 
open  doorway,  enjoying  the  fresh  morning  air.  At  the  window 
sat  a  smiling  little  woman,  and,  by  her  side,  looking  out  at  me, 
stood  the  prettiest  little  girl  I  had  ever  seen.  Her  raven-black 
hair  was  freshly  curled,  and  shone  like  her  raven-black  eyes ; 
and  both  helped  to  make  the  simple  frock  in  which  she  was 
dressed  seem  marvelously  white.  I  have  pitied  my  poor  little 
self  many  times  in  thinking  how  far  removed  from  me  in  condi 
tion  the  petted  child  seemed  that  morning,  and  how  unworthy 
I  felt,  in  my  homely  clothes,  to  touch  her  dainty  hand,  or  even 
to  speak  to  her.  I  was  fascinated  by  the  vision,  but  glad  to 
get  out  of  her  sight. 

On  arriving  at  The  Mansion,  my  father  and  I  walked  to 
the  great  front-door.  There  were  sleeping  lions  at  the  side 
and  there  was  a  rampant  lion  on  the  knocker  which  my  father 
was  about  to  attack  when  the  door  swung  noiselessly  upon  its 
hinges,  and  we  were  met  upon  the  threshold  by  the  mistress 
herself.  She  looked  smaller  than  ever,  shorn  of  her  street 
costume  and  her  bonnet ;  and  her  lips  were  so  thin  and  her 
face  seemed  so  full  of  pain  that  I  wondered  whether  it  were 
her  head  or  her  teeth  that  ached. 


38  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  The  repairs  that  I  wish  to  talk  about  are  at  the  rear  of  the 
house,"  she  said,  blocking  the  way,  and  with  a  nod  directing 
my  father  to  that  locality.  There  was  no  show  of  courtesy  in 
her  words  or  manner.  My  father  turned  away,  responding  to 
her  bidding,  and  still  maintaining  his  hold  upon  my  hand. 

"  Arthur,"  said  she,  "  come  in  here." 

I  looked  up  questioningly  into  my  father's  face,  and  saw  that 
it  was  clouded.  He  relinquished  my  hand,  and  said  :  "  Go 
with  the  lady." 

She  took  me  into  a  little  library,  and,  pointing  me  to  a  chair, 
said  :  "  Sit  there  until  I  come  back.  Don't  stir,  or  touch 
anything." 

I  felt,  when  she  left  me,  as  if  there  were  enough  of  force  in 
her  command  to  paralyze  me  for  a  thousand  years.  I  hardly 
dared  to  breathe.  Still  my  young  eyes  were  active,  and  were 
quickly  engaged  in  taking  an  inventory  of  the  apartment, 
and  of  such  rooms  as  I  could  look  into  through  the  open 
doors.  I  was  conscious  at  once  that  I  was  looking  upon 
nothing  that  was  new.  Everything  was  faded  and  dark  and 
old,  except  those  things  that  care  could  keep  bright.  The 
large  brass  andirons  in  the  fireplace,  and  the  silver  candlesticks 
on  the  mantel-tree  were  as  brilliant  as  when  they  were  new. 
So  perfect  was  the  order  of  the  apartment — so  evidently  had 
every  article  of  furniture  and  every  little  ornament  been  ad 
justed  to  its  place  and  its  relations — that,  after  the  first  ten 
minutes  of  my  observation,  I  could  have  detected  any  change 
as  quickly  as  Mrs.  Sanderson  herself. 

Through  a  considerable  passage,  with  an  open  door  at  either 
end,  I  saw  on  the  wall  of  the  long  dining-room  a  painted  por 
trait  of  a  lad,  older  than  I  and  very  handsome.  I  longed  to 
go  nearer  to  it,  but  the  prohibition  withheld  me.  In  truth,  I 
forgot  all  else  about  me  in  my  curiosity  concerning  it — forgot 
even  where  I  was — yet  I  failed  at  last  to  carry  away  any  im 
pression  of  it  that  my  memory  could  recall  at  will. 

It  may  have  been  half  an  hour — it  may  have  been  an  hour — 
that  Mrs.  Sanderson  was  out  of  the  room,  engaged  with  my 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  39 

father.  It  seemed  a  long  time  that  I  had  been  left  when  she 
returned. 

"Have  you  moved,  or  touched  anything-?"  she  inquired. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  nearer  to  the  picture  of  the  beautiful 
little  boy  in  that  room,"  I  answered,  pointing  to  it. 

She  crossed  the  room  at  once  and  closed  the  door.  Then  she 
came  back  to  me  and  said  with  a  voice  that  trembled  :  "  You 
must  not  see  that  picture,  and  you  must  never  ask  me  any 
thing  about  it." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "I  should  like  to  go  out  where  my  father 
is  at  work." 

"  Your  father  is  busy.  He  is  at  work  for  me,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  have  him  disturbed,"  she  responded. 

"Then  I  should  like  a  book,"  I  said. 

She  went  to  a  little  case  of  shelves  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  and  took  down  one  book  after  another,  and  looked,  not 
at  the  contents,  but  at  the  fly-leaf  of  each,  where  the  name  of 
the  owner  is  usually  inscribed.  At  last  she  found  one  that 
apparently  suited  her,  and  came  and  sat  down  by  me,  holding 
it  in  her  lap.  She  looked  at  me  curiously,  and  then  said  : 
"  What  do  you  expect  to  make  of  yourself,  boy  ?  What  do 
you  expect  to  be  ?  " 

"  A  man,"  I  answered. 

"  Do  you  ?     That  is  a  great  deal  to  expect." 

"Is  it  harder  to  be  a  man  than  it  is  to  be  a  woman?"  I 
inquired. 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is,"  she  replied  almost  snappishly. 

"  A  woman  isn't  so  large,"  I  responded,  as  if  that  statement 
might  contain  a  helpful  suggestion. 

She  smiled  faintly,  and  then  her  face  grew  stern  and  sad  ;  and 


40  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

she  seemed  to  look  at  something  far  off.  At  length  she  turned 
to  me  and  said  :  "You  are  sure  you  will  never  be  a  drunkard  ?  " 

"  Never,"  I  replied. 

"  Nor  a  gambler  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  a  gambler  is." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  ever  become  a  disobedient,  un 
grateful  wretch,  child  ?  "  she  continued. 

I  do  not  know  where  my  responding  words  or  my  impulse  to 
inter  them  came  from  :  probably  from  some  romantic  passage 
that  I  had  read,  coupled  with  the  conversations  I  had  recently 
heard  in  my  home  ;  but  I  rose  upon  my  feet,  and  with  real 
feeling,  though  with  abundant  mock-heroism  in  the  seeming,  I 
said  :  "  Madame,  I  am  a  Bonnicastle  ! " 

She  did  not  smile,  as  I  do,  recalling  the  incident,  but  she 
patted  me  on  the  head  with  the  first  show  of  affectionate  re 
gard.  She  let  her  hand  rest  there  while  her  eyes  looked  far 
off  again  ;  and  I  knew  she  was  thinking  of  things  with  which 
I  could  have  no  part. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  love  me,  Arthur?"  she  said,  look 
ing  me  in  the  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied,  "but  I  think  I  could  love  any 
body  who  loved  me." 

"  That's  true,  that's  true,"  she  said  sadly ;  and  then  she 
added  :  "  Would  you  like  to  live  here  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  would,"  I  answered  frankly. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  so  still,  and  everything  is  so  nice,  and  my 
father  and  mother  would  not  be  here,  and  I  should  have  no 
body  to  play  with,"  I  replied. 

"  But  you  would  have  a  large  room,  and  plenty  to  eat  and 
good  clothes  to  wear,"  she  said,  looking  down  upon  my  humble 
garments. 

"Should  I  have  this  house  when  you  get  through  with  it  ?  " 
I  inquired. 

"Then  you  would  like  it  without  me  in  it,  would  you  ?"  she 
said,  with  a  smile  which  she  could  not  repress. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  41 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  house  for  a  man  to 
live  in,"  I  replied,  evading  her  question. 

"  But  you  would  be  alone." 

"  Oh  no  !  "  I  said,  "  I  should  have  a  wife  and  children." 

"  Humph  !  "  she  exclaimed,  giving  her  head  a  little  toss  and 
mine  a  little  rap  as  she  removed  her  hand,  "  you  will  be  a 
man,  I  guess,  fast  enough  ! " 

She  sat  a  moment  in  silence,  looking  at  me,  and  then  she 
handed  me  the  book  she  held,  and  went  out  of  the  room  again 
to  see  my  father  at  his  work.  It  was  a  book  full  of  rude  pic 
tures  and  uninteresting  text,  and  its  attractions  had  long  been 
exhausted  when  she  returned,  flushed  and  nervous.  I  learned 
afterwards  that  she  had  had  a  long  argument  with  my  father 
about  the  proper  way  of  executing  the  job  she  had  given  him. 

My  father  had  presumed  upon  his  knowledge  of  his  craft  to 
suggest  that  her  way  of  doing  the  work  was  not  the  right  way  ; 
and  she  had  insisted  that  the  work  must  be  done  in  her  way  or 
not  done  at  all.  Those  who  worked  for  her  were  to  obey  her  will. 
She  assumed  all  knowledge  of  everything  relating  to  herself  and 
her  possessions,  and  permitted  neither  argument  nor  opposi 
tion  ;  and  when  my  father  convinced  her  reason  that  she  had 
erred,  she  was  only  fixed  thereby  in  her  error.  I  knew  that 
something  had  gone  wrong,  and  I  longed  to  see  my  father,  but 
I  did  not  dare  to  say  anything  about  it. 

How  the  morning  wore  away  I  do  not  remember.  She  led 
me  in  a  dreary  ramble  through  the  rooms  of  the  large  old 
house,  and  we  had  a  good  deal  of  idle  talk  that  led  to  nothing. 
She  chilled  and  repressed  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  not  myself, — 
that  her  will  overshadowed  me.  She  called  nothing  out  of  me 
that  interested  her.  I  remember  thinking  how  different  she 
was  from  Mr.  Bradford,  whose  presence  made  me  feel  that  I 
was  in  a  large  place,  and  stirred  me  to  think  and  talk. 

At  noon  the  dinner-bell  rang,  and  she  bade  me  go  with  her 
to  the  dining-room.  I  told  her  my  father  had  brought  dinner 
for  me,  and  I  would  like  to  eat  with  him.  I  longed  to  get 
out  of  her  presence,  but  she  insisted  that  I  must  eat  with  her 


42  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

and  there  was  no  escape.  As  we  entered  the  dining-room, 
I  looked  at  once  for  my  picture,  but  it  was  gone.  In  its 
place  was  a  square  area  of  unfaded  wall,  where  it  had  hung 
for  many  years.  I  knew  it  had  been  removed  because  I 
wished  to  see  it  and  was  curious  in  regard  to  it.  The  spot 
where  it  hung  had  a  fascination  for  me,  and  many  times  my 
eyes  went  up  to  it,  as  if  that  which  had  so  strangely  vanished 
might  as  strangely  reappear. 

"Keep  your  eyes  at  home,"  said  my  snappish  little  hostess, 
who  had  placed  me,  not  at  her  side,  but  vis  el  -vis  ;  so  afterward, 
when  they  were  not  glued  to  my  plate,  or  were  not  watching 
the  movements  of  the  old  man-servant  whom  I  had  previously 
seen  driving  his  mistress's  chaise,  they  were  fixed  on  her. 

I  could  not  but  feel  that  "Jenks,"  as  she  called  him,  dis 
liked  me.  I  was  an  intruder,  and  had  no  right  to  be  at 
Madame's  table.  When  he  handed  me  anything  at  the  lady's 
bidding,  he  bent  down  toward  me,  and  uttered  something 
between  growling  and  muttering.  1  had  no  doubt  then  that 
he  would  have  torn  me  limb  from  limb  if  he  could.  I  found 
afterward  that  growling  and  muttering  were  the  habit  of  his 
life.  In  the  stable  he  growled  and  muttered  at  the  horse.  In 
the  garden,  he  growled  and  muttered  at  the  weeds.  Blacking 
his  mistress's  shoes,  he  growled  and  muttered,  and  turned  them 
over  and  over,  as  if  he  were  determining  whether  to  begin  to 
eat  them  at  the  toe  or  the  heel.  If  he  sharpened  the  lady's 
carving-knife,  he  growled  as  if  he  were  sharpening  his  own 
teeth.  I  suppose  she  had  become  used  to  it,  and  did  not 
notice  it ;  but  he  impressed  me  at  first  as  a  savage  monster. 

I  was  conscious  during  the  dinner,  to  which,  notwithstand 
ing  all  the  disturbing  and  depressing  influences,  I  did  full 
justice,  that  I  was  closely  observed  by  my  hostess;  for  she 
freely  undertook  to  criticise  my  habits,  and  to  lay  down  rules 
for  my  conduct  at  the  table.  After  every  remark,  Jenks 
growled  and  muttered  a  hoarse  response. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  meal  there  was  a  long  silence, 
and  I  became  very  much  absorbed  in  my  thoughts  and  fancies. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  43 

My  hostess  observed  that  something  new  had  entered  my 
mind — for  her  apprehensions  were  very  quick — and  said 
abruptly  :  "  Boy,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

I  blushed  and  replied  that  I  would  rather  not  tell. 

"  Tell  me  at  once,"  she  commanded. 

I  obeyed  with  great  reluctance,  but  her  expectant  eye  was 
upon  me,  and  there  was  no  escape. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  I  said,  "  that  I  was  confined  in  an 
enchanted  castle  where  a  little  ogress  lived  with  a  gray-headed 
giant.  One  day  she  invited  me  to  dinner,  and  she  spoke  very 
cross  to  me,  and  the  gray-headed  giant  growled  always  when 
he  came  near  me,  as  if  he  wanted  to  eat  me  ;  but  I  couldn't 
stir  from  my  seat  to  get  away  from  him.  Then  I  heard 
a  voice  outside  of  the  castle  walls  that  sounded  like  my  father's, 
only  it  was  a  great  way  off,  and  it  said : 

'  Come,  little  boy,  to  me, 
On  the  back  of  a  bumble-bee.' 

Then  I  tried  to  get  out  of  my  chair,  but  I  couldn't.  So  I 
clapped  my  hands  three  times,  and  said  :  'Castle,  castle,  Bonni 
castle!'  and  the  little  ogress  flew  out  of  the  window  on  a 
broomstick,  and  I  jumped  up  and  seized  the  carving-knife  and 
slew  the  gray-headed  giant,  and  pitched  him  down  cellar 
with  the  fork.  Then  the  doors  flew  open,  and  I  went  out  to 
see  my  father,  and  he  took  me  home  in  a  gold  chaise  with  a 
black  horse  as  big  as  an  elephant." 

I  could  not  tell  whether  amazement  or  amusement  prevailed 
in  the  expression  of  the  face  of  my  little  hostess,  as  I  proceeded 
with  the  revelation  of  my  fancies.  I  think  her  first  impression 
was  that  I  was  insane,  or  that  my  recent  fall  had  in  some 
way  injured  my  brain,  or  possibly  that  fever  was  coming  on, 
for  she  said,  with  real  concern,  in  her  voice  :  "Child,  are  you 
sure  you  are  quite  well  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  I  replied,  after  the 
formula  in  which  I  had  been  patiently  instructed. 

Jenks  growled  and  muttered,  but  as  I  looked  into  his  face 


44  Arihur  Bonnicastle. 

I  was  sure  I  caught  the  slightest  twinkle  in  his  little  gray  eyes. 
At  any  rate,  I  lost  all  fear  of  him  from  that  moment. 

"  Jcnks,"  said  the  lady,  "take  this  boy  to  his  father,  and  tell 
him  I  think  he  had  better  send  him  home.  If  it  is  necessary, 
you  can  go  with  him." 

As  I  rose  from  the  table,  I  remembered  the  directions  my 
mother  had  given  me  in  the  morning,  and  my  tongue  being 
relieved  from  its  spell  of  silence,  I  went  around  to  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  and  thanked  her  for  her  invitation,  and  formally 
gave  her  my  hand,  to  take  leave  of  her.  I  am  sure  the  lady 
was  surprised  not  only  by  the  courtesy,  but  by  the  manner  in 
which  it  was  rendered  ;  for  she  detained  my  hand,  and  said, 
in  a  voice  quite  low  and  almost  tender  in  its  tone  :  "  You  do 
not  think  me  a  real  ogress,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  ! "  I  replied,  "  I  think  you  are  a  good  woman, 
only  you  are  not  very  much  like  my  mother.  You  don't  seem 
used  to  little  boys  :  you  never  had  any,  perhaps  ?  " 

Jenks  overheard  me,  pausing  in  his  work  of  clearing  the 
table,  and  growled. 

"Jenks,  go  out,"  said  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  he  retired  to  the 
kitchen,  muttering  as  he  went. 

As  I  uttered  my  question,  I  looked  involuntarily  at  the  vacant 
spot  upon  the  wall,  and  although  she  said  nothing  as  I  turned 
back  to  her,  I  saw  that  her  face  was  full  of  pain. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  in  simplicity  and  earnestness. 
My  quick  sense  of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind  evidently 
touched  her,  for  she  put  her  arm  around  me,  and  drew  me  close 
to  her  side.  I  had  unconsciously  uncovered  an  old  fountain  of 
bitterness,  and  as  she  held  me  she  said,  "  Would  you  like  to 
kiss  an  old  lady  ?  " 

1  laughed,  and  said,  "  Yes,  if  she  would  like  to  kiss  a  boy." 

She  strained  me  to  her  breast.  I  knew  that  my  fresh,  boyish 
lips  were  sweet  to  hers,  and  I  knew  afterwards  that  they  were 
the  first  she  had  pressed  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  It  seemed 
a  long  time  that  she  permitted  her  head  to  rest  upon  my  shoul 
der,  for  it  quite  embarrassed  me.  She  released  me  at  length, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  45 

for  Jenks  began  to  fumble  at  the  door,  to  announce  that  lie 
was  about  to  enter.  Before  he  opened  it,  she  said  quickly: 
"  I  shall  see  you  again ;  I  am  going  to  have  a  talk  with  your 
father." 

During  the  closing  passages  of  our  interview,  my  feelings  to 
wards  Mrs.  Sanderson  had  undergone  a  most  unexpected  change. 
My  heart  was  full  of  pity  for  her,  and  I  was  conscious  that  for 
some  reason  which  I  did  not  know  she  had  a  special  regard  for 
me.  When  a  strong  nature  grows  tender,  it  possesses  the  most 
fascinating  influence  in  the  world.  When  a  powerful  will  bends 
to  a  child,  and  undertakes  to  win  that  which  it  cannot  com 
mand,  there  are  very  few  natures  that  can  withstand  it.  I  do 
not  care  to  ask  how  much  of  art  there  may  have  been  in  Mrs. 
Sanderson's  caresses,  but  she  undoubtedly  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  made  of  me  without  them.  Whether  she  felt 
little  or  much,  she  was  determined  to  win  me  to  her  will ;  and 
from  that  moment  to  this,  I  have  felt  her  influence  upon  my 
life.  She  had  a  way  of  assuming  superiority  to  everybody — of 
appearing  to  be  wiser  than  everybody  else,  of  finding  everybody's 
weak  point,  and  exposing  it,  that  made  her  seem  to  be  one 
whose  word  was  always  to  be  taken,  and  whose  opinion  was 
always  to  have  precedence.  It  was  in  this  way,  in  my  subsequent 
intercourse  with  her,  that  she  exposed  to  me  the  weaknesses  of 
my  parents,  and  undermined  my  confidence  in  my  friends,  and 
showed  me  how  my  loves  were  misplaced,  and  almost  absorbed 
me  into  herself.  On  the  day  of  my  visit  to  her,  she  studied  me 
very  thoroughly,  and  learned  the  secret  of  managing  me.  I 
think  she  harmed  me,  and  that  but  for  the  corrective  influences 
to  which  I  was  subsequently  exposed,  she  would  well-nigh 
have  ruined  me.  It  is  a  curse  to  any  child  to  have  his  whole 
personality  absorbed  by  a  foreign  will, — to  take  love,  law  and 
life  from  one  who  renders  all  with  design,  in  the  accomplish 
ment  of  a  purpose.  She  could  not  destroy  my  love  for  my 
father  and  mother,  but  she  made  me  half  ashamed  of  them. 
She  discovered  in  some  way  my  admiration  of  Mr.  Bradford, 
and  managed  in  her  own  way  to  modify  it.  Thus  it  was 


46  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

with  every  acquaintance,  until,  at  last,  she  made  herself  to  me 
the  pivotal  point  on  which  the  world  around  her  turned. 

As  I  left  her,  Jenks  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  out, 
with  the  low  rumble  in  his  throat  and  the  mangled  words  be 
tween  his  teeth  which  were  intended  to  indicate  to  Mrs.  San 
derson  that  he  did  not  approve  of  boys  at  all.  As  soon,  how 
ever,  as  the  door  was  placed  between  us  and  the  lady,  the 
rumble  in  his  throat  was  changed  to  a  chuckle.  Jenks  was  not 
given  to  words,  but  he  was  helplessly  and  hopelessly  under 
Mrs.  Sanderson's  thumb,  and  all  his  growling  and  muttering 
were  a  pretence.  He  would  not  have  dared  to  utter  an  opin 
ion  in  her  presence,  or  express  a  wish.  He  had  comprehended 
my  story  of  the  ogress  and  the  giant,  and  as  it  bore  rather 
harder  upon  the  ogress  than  it  did  upon  the  giant,  he  was  in 
great  good  humor. 

He  squeezed  my  hand  and  shook  me  around  in  what  he  in 
tended  to  be  an  affectionate  and  approving  way,  and  then  gave 
me  a  large  russet  apple,  which  he  drew  from  a  closet  in  the 
carriage-house.  Not  until  he  had  placed  several  walls  between 
himself  and  his  mistress  did  he  venture  to  speak. 

"Well,  you've  said  it,  little  fellow,  that's  a  fact." 

"Said  what?"  I  inquired. 

"  You've  called  the  old  woman  an  ogress,  he  !  he !  he  !  and 
that's  just  what  she  is,  he  !  he  !  he  !  How  did  you  dare  to  do 
such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  She  made  me,"  I  answered.  "  I  did  not  wish  to  tell  the 
story." 

"That's  what  she  always  does,"  said  Jenks.  "She  always 
makes  people  do  what  they  don't  want  to  do.  Don't  you  ever 
tell  her  what  I  say,  but  the  fact  is  I'm  going  to  leave.  She'll 
wake  up  some  morning  and  call  Jenks,  and  Jenks  won't  come ! 
Jenks  won't  be  here  !  Jenks  will  be  far,  far  away  !  " 

His  last  phrase  was  intended  undoubtedly  to  act  upon  my 
boyish  imagination,  and  I  asked  him  with  some  concern  whither 
he  would  go. 

"I  shall  plough  the  sea,"   said  Jenks.      "You  will  find  no 


Arthtir  Bonnicastle.  47 

Jenks  here  and  no  russet  apple  when  you  come  again.  I  shall 
be  on  the  billow.  Now  mind  you  don't  tell  her  " — tossing  a 
nod  toward  the  house  over  his  left  shoulder — "for  that  would 
spoil  it  all." 

I  promised  him  that  I  would  hold  the  matter  a  profound  se 
cret,  although  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  not  quite  loyal  to  my 
new  friend  in  keeping  from  her  the  intelligence  that  her  servant 
was  about  to  leave  The  Mansion  for  a  career  upon  the  ocean. 

"Here's  your  boy,"  said  Jenks,  leading  me  at  last  to  my 
father.  "Mrs.  Sanderson  thinks  you  had  better  send  him 
home,  and  says  I  can  go  with  him  if  he  cannot  find  the  way 
alone." 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,"  said  my  father 
with  a  flush  on  his  face,  "but  I  will  take  care  of  my  boy  my 
self.  He  will  go  home  when  I  do." 

Jenks  chuckled  again.  He  was  delighted  with  anything  that 
crossed  the  will  of  his  mistress.  As  he  turned  away,  I  said  : 
"Good-by,  Mr.  Jenks,  I  hope  you  won't  be  very  sea-sick." 

This  was  quite  too  much  for  the  little  old  man.  He  had 
made  a  small  boy  believe  that  he  was  going  away,  and  that  he 
was  going  to  sea  ;  and  he  returned  to  the  house  so  much  de 
lighted  with  himself  that  he  chuckled  all  the  way,  and  even 
kicked  at  a  stray  chicken  that  intercepted  his  progress. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day  I  amused  myself  with  watch 
ing  my  father  at  his  work.  I  was  anxious  to  tell  him  of  all  that 
had  happened  in  the  house,  but  he  bade  me  wait  until  his  work 
was  done.  I  had  been  accustomed  to  watch  my  father's  face, 
and  to  detect  upon  it  the  expression  of  all  his  moods  and  feel 
ings  ;  and  I  knew  that  afternoon  that  he  was  passing  through  a 
great  trial.  Once  during  the  afternoon  Jenks  came  out  of 
the  house  with  another  apple  ;  and  while  he  kept  one  eye 
on  the  windows  he  beckoned  to  me  and  I  went  to  him.  Plac 
ing  the  apple  in  my  hand,  he  said  :  "  Far,  far  away,  on  the 
billow  !  Good-by."  Not  expecting  to  meet  him  again,  I  was 
much  inclined  to  sadness,  but  as  he  did  not  seem  to  be  very 
much  depressed,  I  spared  my  sympathy,  and  heartily  bade  him 


48  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"good  luck."  So  the  stupid  old  servant  had  had  his  practice 
upon  the  boy,  and  was  happy  in  the  lie  that  he  had  passed 
upon  him. 

There  are  boys  who  seem  to  be  a  source  of  temptation  to 
every  man  and  woman  who  comes  in  contact  with  them.  The 
temptation  to  impress  them,  or  to  excite  them  to  free  and 
characteristic  expression,  seems  quite  irresistible.  Everybody 
tries  to  make  them  believe  something,  or  to  make  them 
say  something.  I  seemed  to  be  one  of  them.  Everybody 
tried  either  to  make  me  talk  and  give  expression  to  my 
fancies,  or  to  make  me  believe  things  that  they  knew  to  be  false. 
They  practiced  upon  my  credulity,  my  sympathy,  and  my  im 
agination  for  amusement.  Even  my  parents  smiled  upon  my 
efforts  at  invention,  until  I  found  that  they  were  more  interested 
in  my  lies  than  in  my  truth.  The  consequence  of  it  all  was  a 
disposition  to  represent  every  occurrence  of  my  life  in  false 
colors.  The  simplest  incident  became  an  interesting  advent 
ure  ;  the  most  common-place  act,  a  heroic  achievement.  With 
a  conscience  so  tender  that  the  smallest  theft  would  have  made 
me  utterly  wretched,  I  could  lie  by  the  hour  without  compunc 
tion.  My  father  and  mother  had  no  idea  of  the  injury  they 
were  doing  me,  and  whenever  they  realized,  as  they  sometimes 
did,  that  they  could  not  depend  upon  my  word,  they  were  sadly 
puzzled. 

When  my  father  finished  his  work  for  the  day,  and  with  my 
hand  in  his  I  set  out  for  home,  it  may  readily  be  imagined  that 
I  had  a  good  deal  to  tell.  I  not  only  told  of  all  that  I  had 
seen,  but  I  represented  as  actual  all  that  had  been  suggested. 
Such  wonderful  rooms  and  dismal  passages  and  marvelous  pic 
tures  and  services  of  silver  and  gold  and  expansive  mirrors  as 
1  had  seen  !  Such  viands  as  I  had  tasted — such  fruit  as  I  had 
eaten  !  And  my  honest  father  received  all  the  marvels  with 
hardly  a  question,  and,  after  him,  my  mother  and  the  children. 
I  remember  few  of  the  particulars,  except  that  the  picture  of 
the  boy  came  and  went  upon  the  wall  of  the  dining-room  as  if 
by  magic,  and  that  Mrs.  Sanderson  wished  to  have  me  live  with 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  49 

her  that  I  might  become  her  heir.  The  last  statement  my 
father  examined  with  some  care.  Indeed,  I  was  obliged  to  tell 
exactly  what  was  said  on  the  subject,  and  he  learned  that,  while 
the  lady  wished  me  to  live  with  her,  the  matter  of  inheritance 
had  not  been  suggested  by  anybody  but  myself. 
3 


CHAPTER   III. 

I    GO    TO   THE    BIRD'S   NEST   TO  LIVE,    AND    THE    GIANT    PERSISTS 
IN    HIS    PLANS    FOR    A    SEA-VOYAGE. 

MY  father  worked  for  Mrs.  Sanderson  during  the  week,  but  he 
came  home  every  night  with  a  graver  face,  and,  on  the  closing 
evening  of  the  week,  it  all  came  out.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
to  cover  from  my  mother  and  his  family  for  any  length  of  time 
anything  which  gave  him  either  satisfaction  or  sorrow. 

I  remember  how  he  walked  the  room  that  night,  and  swung 
his  arms,  and  in  an  excitement  that  was  full  of  indignation  and 
self-pity  declared  that  he  could  not  work  for  Mrs.  Sanderson 
another  week.  "  I  should  become  an  absolute  idiot  if  I  were 
to  work  for  her  a  month,"  I  heard  him  say. 

And  then  my  mother  told  him  that  she  never  expected  any 
thing  good  from  Mrs.  Sanderson — that  it  had  turned  out  very 
much  as  she  anticipated — though  for  the  life  of  her  she  could 
not  imagine  what  difference  it  made  to  my  father  whether  he 
did  his  work  in  one  way  or  another,  so  long  as  it  pleased  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  and  he  got  his  money  for  his  labor.  I  did  not  at  all 
realize  what  an  effect  this  talk  would  have  upon  my  father  then, 
but  now  I  wonder  that  with  his  sensitive  spirit  he  did  not  upbraid 
my  mother,  or  die.  In  her  mind  it  was  only  another  instance 
of  my  father's  incompetency  for  business,  to  which  incompe- 
tency  she  attributed  mainly  the  rigors  of  her  lot. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  was  no  better  pleased  with  my  father  than 
he  was  with  her.  If  he  had  not  left  her  at  the  end  of  his  first 
week,  she  would  have  managed  to  dismiss  him  as  soon  as  she 
had  secured  her  will  concerning  myself.  On  Monday  morning 
1  was  dispatched  to  The  Mansion  with  a  note  from  my  father 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  51 

which  informed  Mrs.  Sanderson  that  she  was  at  liberty  to  suit 
herself  with  other  service. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  read  the  note,  put  her  lips  very  tightly  to 
gether,  and  then  called  Jenks. 

"  Jenks,"  said  she,  "  put  the  horse  before  the  chaise,  change 
your  clothes,  and  drive  to  the  door." 

Jenks  disappeared  to  execute  her  commands,  and,  in  the 
meantime,  Mrs.  Sanderson  busied  herself  with  preparations. 
First  she  brought  out  sundry  pots  of  jam  and  jelly,  and  then 
two' or  three  remnants  of  stuffs  that  could  be  made  into  clothing 
for  children,  and  a  basket  of  apples.  When  the  chaise  arrived 
at  the  door,  she  told  Jenks  to  tie  his  horse  and  bestow  the 
articles  she  had  provided  in  the  box.  When  this  task  was  com 
pleted  she  mounted  the  vehicle,  and  bade  me  get  in  at  her  side. 
Then  Jenks  took  his  seat,  and  at  Mrs.  Sanderson's  command 
drove  directly  to  my  father's  house. 

When  we  arrived,  my  father  had  gone  out ;  and  after  express 
ing  her  regret  that  she  could  not  see  him,  she  sat  down  by  my 
mother,  and  demonstrated  her  knowledge  of  human  nature  by 
winning  her  confidence  entirely.  She  even  commiserated  her 
on  the  impracticable  character  of  her  husband,  and  then  she 
left  with  her  the  wages  of  his  labor  and  the  gifts  she  had 
brought.  My  mother  declared  after  the  little  lady  went  away 
that  she  had  never  been  so  pleasantly  disappointed  as  she  had 
been  in  Mrs.  Sanderson  !  She  was  just,  she  was  generous,  she 
was  everything  that  was  sweet  and  kind  and  good.  All  this  my 
father  heard  when  he  arrived,  and  to  it  all  he  made  no  reply. 
He  was  too  kind  to  carry  anger,  and  too  poor  to  spurn  a  freely 
offered  gift,  that  brought  comfort  to  those  whom  he  loved. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  was  a  woman  of  business,  and  at  night  she 
came  again.  I  knew  my  father  dreaded  meeting  her,  as  he 
always  dreaded  meeting  with  a  strong  and  unreasonable  will. 
He  had  a  way  of  avoiding  such  a  will  whenever  it  was  possible, 
and  of  sacrificing  everything  unimportant  to  save  a  collision 
with  it.  There  was  an  insult  to  his  manhood  in  the  mere  exist 
ence  and  exercise  of  such  a  will,  while  actual  subjection  to  it 


52  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

was  the  extreme  of  torture.  But  sometimes  the  exercise  of 
such  a  will  drove  him  into  a  corner  ;  and  when  it  did,  the 
shrinking,  peaceable  man  became  a  lion.  He  had  seen  how 
easily  my  mother  had  been  conquered,  and,  although  Mrs. 
Sanderson's  gifts  were  in  his  house,  he  determined  that  what 
ever  might  be  her  business,  she  should  be  dealt  with  frankly 
and  firmly. 

I  was  watching  at  the  window  when  the  little  lady  alighted 
at  the  gate.  As  she  walked  up  the  passage  from  the  street, 
Jenks  exchanged  some  signals  with  me.  He  pointed  to* the 
east  and  then  toward  the  sea,  with  gestures,  which  meant  that 
long  before  the  dawning  of  the  morrow's  sun  Mrs.  Sanderson's 
aged  servant  would  cease  to  be  a  resident  of  Bradford,  and  would 
be  tossing  "on  the  billow."  I  did  not  have  much  opportunity 
to  carry  on  this  kind  of  commerce  with  Jenks,  for  Mrs.  Sander 
son's  conversation  had  special  reference  to  myself. 

I  think  my  father  was  a  good  deal  surprised  to  find  the  lady 
agreeable  and  gracious.  She  alluded  to  his  note  as  something 
which  had  disappointed  her,  but,  as  she  presumed  to  know  her 
own  business  and  to  do  it  in  her  own  way,  she  supposed  that 
other  people  knew  their  own  business  also,  and  she  was  quite 
willing  to  accord  to  them  such  privileges  as  she  claimed 
for  herself.  She  was  glad  there  was  work  enough  to  be  done 
in  Bradford,  and  she  did  not  doubt  that  my  father  would  get 
employment.  Indeed,  as  he  was  a  stranger,  she  would  take  the 
liberty  of  commending  him  to  her  friends  as  a  good  workman. 
It  did  not  follow,  she  said,  that  because  he  could  not  get  along 
with  her  he  could  not  get  along  with  others.  My  father  was 
very  silent  and  permitted  her  to  do  the  talking.  He  knew  that 
she  had  come  with  some  object  to  accomplish,  and  he  waited 
for  its  revelation. 

She  looked  at  me,  at  last,  and  called  me  to  her  side.  She 
put  her  arm  around  me,  and  said,  addressing  my  father  :  "  I 
suppose  Arthur  told  you  what  a  pleasant  day  we  had  together." 

"  Yes,  and  I  hope  he  thanked  you  for  your  kindness  to  him," 
my  father  answered. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  53 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  was  very  polite  and  wonderfully  quiet  for  a 
boy,"  she  responded. 

My  mother  volunteered  to  express  the  hope  that  I  had  not 
given  the  lady  any  trouble. 

"  I  never  permit  boys  to  trouble  me,"  was  the  curt  response. 

There  was  something  in  this  that  angered  my  father — some 
thing  in  the  tone  adopted  toward  my  mother,  and  something 
that  seemed  so  cruel  in  the  utterance  itself.  My  father  be 
lieved  in  the  rights  of  boys,  and  when  she  said  this,  he  re 
marked  with  more  than  his  usual  incisiveness  that  he  had  no 
ticed  that  those  boys  who  had  not  been  permitted  to  trouble 
anybody  when  they  were  young,  were  quite  in  the  habit,  when 
they  ceased  to  be  boys,  of  giving  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  He 
did  not  know  that  he  had  touched  Mrs.  Sanderson  at  a  very 
tender  point,  but  she  winced  painfully,  and  then  went  directly 
to  business. 

"  Mr.  Bonnicastle,"  said  she,  "  I  am  living  alone,  as  you 
know.  It  is  not  necessary  to  tell  you  much  about  myself,  but 
I  am  alone,  and  with  none  to  care  for  but  myself.  Although  I 
am  somewhat  in  years,  I  come  of  a  long-lived  race,  and  am 
quite  well.  I  believe  it  is  rational  to  expect  to  live  for  a  con 
siderable  time  yet,  and  though  I  have  much  to  occupy  my  mind 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  me  to  help  somebody  along.  You 
have  a  large  family,  whose  fortunes  you  would  be  glad  to  ad 
vance,  and,  although  you  and  I  do  not  agree  very  well,  I  hope 
you  will  permit  me  to  assist  you  in  accomplishing  your  wish." 

She  paused  to  sec  how  the  proposition  was  received,  and  was 
apparently  satisfied  that  fortune  had  favored  her,  though  my 
father  said  nothing. 

"  I  want  this  boy,"  she  resumed,  drawing  me  more  closely  to 
her.  "  I  want  to  see  him  growing  up  and  becoming  a  man  un 
der  my  provisions  for  his  support  and  education.  It  is  not  pos 
sible  for  you  to  do  for  him  what  I  can  do.  It  will  interest  me 
to  watch  him  from  year  to  year,  it  will  bring  a  little  young  blood 
into  my  lonely  old  house  occasionally,  and  in  one  way  and 
another  it  will  do  us  all  good." 


54  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

My  father  looked  very  serious.  He  loved  me  as  he  loved 
his  life.  His  great  ambition  was  to  give  me  the  education 
which  circumstances  had  denied  to  him.  Here  was  the  oppor 
tunity,  brought  to  his  door,  yet  he  hesitated  to  accept  it.  After 
thinking  for  a  moment,  he  said  gravely  :  "  Mrs.  Sanderson,  God 
has  placed  this  boy  in  my  hands  to  train  for  Himself,  and  I  can 
not  surrender  the  control  of  his  life  to  anybody.  Temporarily 
I  can  give  him  into  the  hands  of  teachers,  conditionally  I  can 
place  him  in  your  hands,  but  I  cannot  place  him  in  any  hands 
beyond  my  immediate  recall.  I  can  never  surrender  my  right 
to  his  love  and  his  obedience,  or  count  him  an  alien  from  my 
heart  and  home.  If,  understanding  my  feeling  in  this  matter, 
you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  do  for  him  what  I  cannot,  why,  you 
have  the  means,  and  I  am  sure  God  will  bless  you  for  employ 
ing  them  to  this  end." 

"I  may  win  all  the  love  and  all  the  society  from  him  I  can  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Sanderson,  interrogatively. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  a  happy  or  a  healthy  thing  for 
the  child  to  spend  much  time  in  your  house,  deprived  of  young 
society,"  my  father  replied.  "  If  you  should  do  for  him  what 
you  suggest,  I  trust  that  the  boy  and  that  all  of  us  would  make 
such  expressions  of  our  gratitude  as  would  be  most  agreeable 
to  yourself ;  but  I  must  choose  his  teachers,  and  my  home,  how 
ever  humble,  must  never  cease  to  be  regarded  by  him  as  his 
home.  I  must  say  this  at  the  risk  of  appearing  ungrateful, 
Mrs.  Sanderson." 

The  little  lady  had  the  great  good  sense  to  know  when  she 
had  met  with  an  answer,  and  the  adroitness  to  appear  satisfied 
with  it.  She  was  one  of  those  rare  persons  who,  seeing  a  rock 
in  the  way,  recognize  it  at  once,  and,  without  relinquishing  their 
purpose  for  an  instant,  either  seek  to  go  around  it  or  to  arrive 
at  their  purpose  from  some  other  direction.  She  had  concluded, 
for  reasons  of  her  own,  to  make  me  so  far  as  possible  her 
possession.  She  had  had  already  a  sufficient  trial  of  her  power 
to  show  her  something  of  what  she  could  do  with  me,  and  she 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  55 

calculated  with  considerable  certainty  that  she  could  manage 
my  father  in  some  way. 

"Very  well  :  he  shall  not  come  to  me  now,  and  shall  never 
come  unless  I  can  make  my  home  pleasant  to  him,"  she  said. 
"  In  the  meantime,  you  will  satisfy  yourself  in  regard  to  a  desir 
able  school  for  him,  and  we  will  leave  all  other  questions  for 
time  to  determine." 

Neither  my  father  nor  my  mother  had  anything  to  oppose  to 
this,  and  my  patroness  saw  at  once  that  her  first  point  was 
gained.  Somehow  all  had  been  settled  without  trouble.  Every 
obstacle  had  been  taken  out  of  the  way,  and  the  lady  seemed 
more  than  satisfied. 

"When  you  are  ready  to  talk  decisively  about  the  boy,  you 
will  come  to  my  house,  and  we  will  conclude  matters,"  she 
said,  as  she  rose  to  take  her  leave. 

I  noticed  that  she  did  not  recognize  the  existence  of  my 
little  brothers  and  older  sisters,  and  something  subtler  than 
reason  told  me  that  she  was  courteous  to  my  father  and  mother 
only  so  far  as  was  necessary  for  the  accomplishment  of  her  pur 
poses.  I  was  half  afraid  of  her,  yet  I  could  not  help  admiring 
her.  She  kissed  me  at  parting,  but  she  made  no  demonstration 
of  responsive  courtesy  to  my  parents,  who  advanced  in  a  cor 
dial  way  to  show  their  sense  of  her  kindness. 

In  the  evening,  my  father  called  upon  Mr.  Bradford  and 
made  a  full  exposure  of  the  difficulty  he  had  had  with  Mrs.  San 
derson,  and  the  propositions  she  had  made  respecting  myself ; 
and  as  he  reported  his  conversation  and  conclusions  on  his  re 
turn  to  my  mother,  I  was  made  acquainted  with  them.  Mr. 
Bradford  had  advised  that  the  lady's  offer  concern  ing  me  should 
be  accepted.  lie  had  reasons  for  this  which  he  told  my  father 
he  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  give,  but  there  were  enough  that 
lay  upon  the  surface  to  decide  the  matter.  There  was  nothing 
humiliating  in  it,  for  it  was  no  deed  of  charity.  A  great  good 
could  be  secured  for  me  by  granting  to  the  lady  what  she  re 
garded  in  lici  own  heart  as  a  favor.  She  never  had  been  greatly 
given  to  deeds  of  benevolence,  and  this  was  the  first  notable 


56  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

act  in  her  history  that  looked  like  one.  He  advised,  however, 
that  my  father  hold  my  destiny  in  his  own  hands,  and  keep  me 
as  much  as  possible  away  from  Bradford,  never  permitting  me 
to  be  long  at  a  time  under  Mrs.  Sanderson's  roof  and  immediate 
personal  influence.  "  When  the  youngster  gets  older,"  Mr. 
Bradford  said,  "  he  will  manage  all  this  matter  for  himself,  bet 
ter  than  we  can  manage  it  for  him." 

Then  Mr.  Bradford  told  him  about  a  famous  family  school  in 
a  country  village  some  thirty  miles  away,  which,  from  the  name 
of  the  teacher,  Mr.  Bird,  had  been  named  by  the  pupils  "  The 
Bird's  Nest."  Everybody  in  the  region  knew  about  The  Bird's 
Nest ;  and  multitudinous  were  the  stories  told  about  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bird  ;  and  very  dear  to  all  the  boys,  many  of  whom  had 
grown  to  be  men,  were  the  house  and  the  pair  who  presided 
over  it.  Mr.  Bradford  drew  a  picture  of  this  school  which 
quite  fascinated  my  father,  and  did  much — everything  indeed — 
to  reconcile  him  to  the  separation  which  my  removal  thither 
would  make  necessary.  I  was  naturally  very  deeply  interested 
in  all  that  related  to  the  school,  and,  graceless  as  the  fact  may 
seem,  I  should  have  been  ready  on  the  instant  to  part  with  all 
that  made  my  home,  in  order  to  taste  the  new,  strange  life  it 
would  bring  me.  I  had  many  questions  to  ask,  but  quickly  ar 
rived  at  the  end  of  my  father's  knowledge  ;  and  then  my  im 
agination  ran  wildly  on  until  the  images  of  The  Bird's  Nest  and 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  and  Hillsborough,  the  village  that  made 
a  tree  for  the  nest,  were  as  distinctly  in  my  mind  as  if  I  had 
known  them  all  my  life. 

The  interview  which  Mrs.  Sanderson  had  asked  of  my  father 
was  granted  at  an  early  day,  and  the  lady  acceded  without  a 
word  to  the  proposition  to  send  me  to  The  Bird's  Nest.  She 
had  heard  only  good  reports  of  the  school,  she  said,  and  was 
apparently  delighted  with  my  father's  decision.  Indeed,  I  sus 
pect  she  was  quite  as  anxious  to  get  me  away  from  my  father 
and  my  home  associations  as  he  was  to  keep  me  out  of  The 
Mansion  and  away  from  her.  She  was  left  to  make  her  own 
arrangements  for  my  outfit,  and  also  for  my  admission  to  the 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  57 

school,  though  my  father  stipulated  for  the  privilege  of  accom 
panying  me  to  the  new  home. 

One  pleasant  morning,  some  weeks  afterward,  she  sent  for 
me  to  visit  her  at  The  Mansion.  She  was  very  sweet  and 
motherly  ;  and  when  I  returned  to  my  home  I  went  clad  in  a 
suit  of  garments  that  made  me  the  subject  of  curiosity  and 
envy  among  my  brothers  and  mates,  and  with  the  news  that  in 
one  week  I  must  be  ready  to  go  to  Hillsborough.  During  all 
that  week  my  father  was  very  tender  toward  me,  as  toward 
some  great  treasure  set  apart  to  absence.  He  not  only  did  not 
seek  for  work,  but  declined  or  deferred  that  which  came.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  know  then  the  heart-hunger  which  he 
anticipated,  but  I  know  it  now.  I  do  not  doubt  that,  in  his 
usual  way,  he  wove  around  me  many  a  romance,  and  reached 
forward  into  all  the  possibilities  of  my  lot.  He  was  always  as 
visionary  as  a  child,  though  I  do  not  know  that  he  was  more 
childlike  in  this  respect  than  in  others. 

My  mother  was  full  of  the  gloomiest  forebodings.  She  felt 
as  if  Hillsborough  would  prove  to  be  an  unhealthy  place  ;  she 
did  not  doubt  that  there  was  something  wrong  about  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bird,  if  only  we  could  know  what  it  was  ;  and  for  her  part 
there  was  something  in  the  name  which  the  boys  had  given  the 
school  that  was  fearfully  suggestive  of  hunger.  She  should 
always  think  of  me,  she  said,  as  a  bird  with  its  mouth  open, 
crying  for  something  to  eat.  More  than  all,  she  presumed  that 
Mr.  Bird  permitted  his  boys  to  swim  without  care,  and  she 
would  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  oldest  of  them  carried 
guns  and  pistols  and  took  the  little  boys  with  them. 

Poor,  dear  mother  !  Most  fearful  and  unhappy  while  living, 
and  most  tenderly  mourned  and  revered  in  memory  !  why  did 
you  persist  in  seeing  darkness  where  others  saw  light,  and  in 
making  every  cup  bitter  with  the  apprehension  of  evil  ?  Why 
were  you  forever  on  the  watch  that  no  freak  of  untoward  for 
tune  should  catch  you  unaware  ?  Why  did  you  treat  the  Provi 
dence  you  devoutly  tried  to  trust  as  if  you  supposed  he  meant 

to  trick  you,  if  he  found  you  for  a  moment  off  your  guard  ?  Oh, 
3* 


58  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

the  twin  charms  of  hopefulness  and  trustfulness  !  What  power 
have  they  to  strengthen  weary  feet,  to  sweeten  sleep,  to  make 
the  earth  green  and  the  heavens  blue,  to  cheat  misfortune  of 
its  bitterness  and  to  quench  even  the  poison  of  death  itself! 

It  was  arranged  that  my  father  should  take  me  to  Hills- 
borough  in  Mrs.  Sanderson's  chaise — the  same  vehicle  in  which 
I  had  first  seen  the  lady  herself.  My  little  trunk  was  to  be  at 
tached  by  straps  to  the  axletree,  and  so  ride  beneath  us.  Tak 
ing  leave  of  my  home  was  a  serious  business,  notwithstanding 
my  anticipations  of  pleasure.  My  mother  said  that  it  was  not 
at  all  likely  we  should  ever  meet  again  ;  and  I  parted  with  her 
at  last  in  a  passion  of  tears.  The  children  were  weeping  too, 
from  sympathy  rather  than  from  any  special  or  well-compre 
hended  sorrow,  and  I  heartily  wished  myself  away,  and  out  of 
sight. 

Jenks  brought  the  horse  to  us,  and,  after  he  had  assisted 
my  father  in  fastening  the  trunk,  took  me  apart  from  the 
group  that  had  gathered  around  the  chaise,  and  said  in  a  con 
fidential  way  that  he  made  an  attempt  on  the  previous  night  to 
leave.  He  had  got  as  far  as  the  window  from  which  he  in 
tended  to  let  himself  down,  but  finding  it  dark  and  rather  cloudy 
lie  had  concluded  to  defer  his  departure  until  a  lighter  and 
clearer  night.  "  A  storm,  a  dark  storm,  is  awful  on  the  ocean, 
you  know,"  said  Jenks,  "but  I  shall  go.  You  will  not  see  me 
here  when  you  come  again.  Don't  say  anything  about  it,  but 
the  old  woman  is  going  to  be  surprised,  once  in  her  life.  She 
will  call  Jenks,  and  Jenks  won't  come.  He  will  be  far,  far 
away  on  the  billow." 

"  Good-by,"  I  said  ;  "  I  hope  I'll  see  you  again  somewhere, 
but  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  leave  Mrs.  Sanderson." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  leave,"  said  Jenks.  "  The  world  is  large  and 
Mrs.  Sanderson  is — is — quite  small.  Let  her  call  Jenks  once, 
and  sec  what  it  is  to  have  him  far,  far  away.  Her  time  will 
come."  And  he  shook  his  head,  and  pressed  his  lips  together, 
and  ground  the  gravel  under  his  feet,  as  if  nothing  less  than 
an  earthquake  could  shake  his  determination.  The  case  seemed 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  59 

quite  hopeless  to  me,  and  I  remember  that  the  unpleasant  pos 
sibility  suggested  itself  that  I  might  be  summoned  to  The  Man 
sion  to  take  Jenks's  place. 

At  the  close  of  our  little  interview,  he  drew  a  long  paper  box 
from  his  pocket,  and  gave  it  to  me  with  the  injunction  not  to 
open  it  until  I  had  gone  half  way  to  Hillsborough.  I  accord 
ingly  placed  it  in  the  boot  of  the  chaise,  to  wait  its  appointed 
time. 

Jenks  rode  with  us  as  far  as  The  Mansion,  spending  the 
time  in  instructing  my  father  just  where,  under  the  shoulder 
of  the  old  black  horse,  he  could  make  a  whip  the  most  effective 
without  betraying  the  marks  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and,  when  we 
drove  up  to  the  door,  disappeared  at  once  around  the  corner 
of  the  house.  I  went  in  to  take  leave  of  the  lady,  and  found 
her  in  the  little  library,  awaiting  me.  Before  her,  on  the  table, 
were  a  Barlow  pocket-knife,  a  boy's  playing-ball,  a  copy  of 
the  New  Testament,  and  a  Spanish  twenty-five  cent  piece. 

"There,"  she  said,  "young  man,  put  all  those  in  your 
pockets,  and  see  that  you  don't  lose  them.  I  want  you  to  write 
me  a  letter  once  a  month,  and,  when  you  write,  begin  your  let 
ters  with  '  Dear  Aunt.'  " 

The  sudden  accession  to  my  boyish  wealth  almost  drove  me 
wild.  I  had  received  my  first  knife  and  my  first  silver.  I  im 
pulsively  threw  my  arms  around  the  neck  of  my  benefactress, 
and  told  her  I  should  never,  never  forget  her,  and  should 
never  do  anything  that  would  give  her  trouble. 

"  See  that  you  don't  !  "  was  the  sharp  response. 

As  I  bade  her  good-by,  I  was  gratified  by  the  look  of  pride 
which  she  bestowed  on  me,  but  she  did  not  accompany  me  to 
the  door,  or  speak  a  word  to  my  father.  So,  at  last,  we  were  gone, 
and  fairly  on  the  way.  I  revealed  to  my  father  the  treasures  I 
had  received,  and  only  at  a  later  day  was  I  able  to  interpret  the 
look  of  pain  that  accompanied  his  congratulations.  I  was  in 
debted  to  a  stranger,  who  was  trying  to  win  my  heart,  for  pos 
sessions  which  his  poverty  forbade  him  to  bestow  upon  me. 

Of  the  delights  of  that  drive  over  the  open  country  I  can 


6o  Arthur  Bonnicastle, 

give  no  idea.  We  climbed  long  hills  ;  we  rode  by  the  side  of 
cool,  dashing  streams  ;  we  paused  under  the  shadow  of  way 
side  trees  ;  we  caught  sight  of  a  thousand  forms  of  frolic  life 
on  the  fences,  in  the  forests,  and  in  the  depths  of  crystal  pools  ; 
we  saw  men  at  work  in  the  fields,  and  I  wondered  if  they  did  not 
envy  us ;  we  met  strange  people  on  the  road,  who  looked  at 
us  with  curious  interest ;  a  black  fox  dashed  across  our  way, 
and,  giving  us  a  scared  look,  scampered  into  the  cover  and  was 
gone  ;  bobolinks  sprang  up  in  the  long  grass  on  wings  tangled 
with  music,  and  sailed  away  and  caught  on  fences  to  steady 
themselves  ;  squirrels  took  long  races  before  us  on  the  road-side 
rails  ;  and  far  up  through  the  trees  and  above  the  hills  white- 
winged  clouds  with  breasts  of  downy  brown  floated  against  a  sky 
of  deepest  blue.  Never  again  this  side  of  heaven  do  I  expect 
to  experience  such  perfect  pleasure  as  I  enjoyed  that  day — a 
delight  in  all  forms  and  phases  of  nature,  sharpened  by  the 
expectations  of  new  companionships  and  of  a  strange  new  life 
that  would  open  before  I  should  sleep  again. 

The  half-way  stage  of  our  journey  was  reached  before  noon, 
and  I  was  quite  as  anxious  to  see  the  gift  which  Jenks  had 
placed  in  my  hands  at  parting  as  to  taste  the  luncheon  which 
my  mother  had  provided.  Accordingly,  when  my  repast  was 
taken  from  the  basket  and  spread  before  rne,  I  first  opened  the 
paper  box.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  not  disappointed  ; 
but  the  souvenir  was  one  of  which  only  I  could  understand 
the  significance,  and  that  fact  gave  it  a  rare  charm.  It  con 
sisted  of  a  piece  of  a  wooden  shingle  labeled  in  pencil 
"  Atlantick  Oshun,"  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  little  ship, 
standing  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  to  the  plane  of 
the  shingle,  with  a  mast  and  a  sail  of  wood,  and  a  figure 
at  the  bow,  also  of  wood,  intended  doubtless  to  represent 
Jenks  himself,  looking  off  upon  the  boundless  waste.  The 
utmost  point  of  explanation  to  which  my  father  could  urge  me 
was  the  statement  that  some  time  something  would  happen  at 
The  Mansion  which  would  explain  all.  So  I  carefully  put  the 
"Atlantick  Oshun"  into  its  box,  in  which  I  preserved  it  for 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  61 

many  months,  answering  all  inquiries  concerning  it  with  the 
tantalizing  statement  that  it  was  "  a  secret." 

Toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon,  we  came  in  sight  of 
Hillsborough,  with  its  two  churches,  and  its  cluster  of  embow 
ered  white  houses.  It  was  perched,  like  many  New  England 
villages,  upon  the  top  of  the  highest  hill  in  the  region,  and  we 
entered  at  last  upon  the  long  acclivity  that  led  to  it.  Half 
way  up  the  hill,  we  saw  before  us  a  light,  open  wagon  drawn  by 
two  gray  horses,  and  bearing  a  gentleman  and  lady  who  were 
quietly  chatting  and  laughing  together.  As  we  drew  near  to 
them,  they  suddenly  stopped,  and  the  gentleman,  handing  the 
reins  to  his  companion,  rose  upon  his  feet,  drew  a  rifle  to  his 
eye  and  discharged  it  at  some  object  in  the  fields.  In  an 
instant,  a  little  dog  bounced  out  of  the  wagon,  and,  striking 
rather  heavily  upon  the  ground,  rolled  over  and  over  three 
or  four  times,  and  then,  gaining  his  feet,  went  for  the  game. 
Our  own  horse  had  stopped,  and,  as  wild  as  the  little  dog,  I 
leaped  from  the  chaise,  and  started  to  follow.  When  I  came 
up  with  the  dog,  he  was  making  the  most  extravagant  plunges 
at  a  wounded  woodchuck,  who  squatted,  chattering  and  show 
ing  his  teeth.  I  seized  the  nearest  weapon  in  the  shape  of  a 
cudgel  that  I  could  find,  dispatched  the  poor  creature,  and  bore 
him  in  triumph  to  the  gentleman,  the  little  dog  barking  and 
snapping  at  the  game  all  the  way. 

"  Well  done,  my  lad  !  I  have  seen  boys  who  were  afraid  of 
woqdchucks.  Toss  him  into  the  ravine :  he  is  good  for 
nothing,"  said  the  man  of  the  rifle. 

Then  he  looked  around,  and,  bowing  to  my  father,  told  him 
that  as  he  was  fond  of  shooting  he  had  undertaken  to  rid  the 
farms  around  him  of  the  animals  that  gave  their  owners  so 
much  trouble.  "  It  is  hard  upon  the  woodchucks,"  he  added, 
"  but  kind  to  the  farmers."  This  was  apparently  said  to  defend 
himself  from  the  suspicion  of  being  engaged  in  cruel  and 
wanton  sport. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  tired  and  reeking  horse  which 
my  father  drove  whinnied,  then  started  on,  and,  coining  to  the 


62  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

back  of  the  other  carriage,  placed  his  nose  close  to  the  gentle 
man's  shoulder.  The  lady  looked  around  and  smiled,  while 
the  man  placed  his  hand  caressingly  upon  the  animal's  head. 
"  Animals  are  all  very  fond  of  me,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  under 
stand  it  :  I  suppose  they  do." 

There  was  something  exceedingly  winning  and  hearty  in  the 
gentleman's  voice,  and  I  did  not  wonder  that  all  the  animals 
liked  him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  inquired  my  father,  "where  The  Bird's 
Nest  is  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  going  there.     Indeed,  I'm  the  old  Bird  himself." 

"  Tut  !  who  takes  care  of  the  nest  ?  "  said  the  lady  with  a 
smile. 

"  And  this  is  the  Mother  Bird — Mrs.  Bird,"  said  the  gentle 
man. 

Mrs.  Bird  bowed  to  us  both,  and,  beckoning  to  me,  pointed 
to  her  side.  It  was  an  invitation  to  leave  my  father,  and  take 
a  seat  with  her.  The  little  dog,  who  had  been  helped  into  his 
master's  wagon,  saw  me  coming,  and  mounted  into  his  lap, 
determined  that  he  would  shut  that  place  from  the  intruder.  I 
accepted  the  invitation,  and,  with  the  lady's  arm  around  me, 
we  started  on. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  guess,"  said  Mr.  Bird.  "  I  guess  your 
name  is  Arthur  Bonnicastle,  that  the  man  behind  us  is  your 
father,  that  you  are  corning  to  The  Bird's  Nest  to  live,  that 
you  are  intending  to  be  a  good  boy,  and  that  you  are  going  to 
be  very  happy." 

"  You've  guessed  right  the  first  time,"  I  responded  laughing. 

';  And  I  can  always  guess  when  a  boy  has  done  right  and 
when  he  has  done  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Bird.  "There's  a  little 
spot  in  his  eye — ah,  yes !  you  have  it ! — that  tells  the  whole 
story,"  and  he  looked  down  pleasantly  into  my  face. 

At  this  moment  one  of  his  horses  discovered  a  young  calf  by 
the  roadside,  and,  throwing  back  his  ears,  gave  it  chase.  I 
had  never  seen  so  funny  a  performance.  The  horse,  in  genuine 
frolic,  dragged  his  less  playful  mate  and  the  wagon  through  the 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  63 

gutter  and  over  rocks  for  many  rods,  entirely  unrestrained  by 
his  driver  until  the  scared  object  of  the  chase  slipped  between 
two  bars  at  the  roadside,  and  ran  wildly  off  into  the  field.  At 
this  the  horse  shook  his  head  in  a  comical  way  and  went 
quietly  back  into  the  road. 

"  That  horse  is  laughing  all  over,"  said  Mr.  Bird.  "  He 
thinks  it  was  an  excellent  joke.  I  presume  he  will  think  of  it, 
and  laugh  again  when  he  gets  at  his  oats." 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  horses  laugh,  Mr.  Bird  ?  "  I  in 
quired. 

"  Laugh?  Bless  you,  yes,"  he  replied.  "  All  animals  laugh 
when  they  are  pleased.  Gyp  " — and  he  turned  his  eyes  upon 
the  little  dog  in  his  lap — "  are  you  happy  ?  " 

Gyp  looked  up  into  his  master's  face,  and  wagged  his  tail. 

"Don't  you  see  'yes'  in  his  eye,  and  a  smile  in  the  wag  of 
his  tail  ? "  said  Mr.  Bird.  "  If  I  had  asked  you  the  same 
question  you  would  have  answered  with  your  tongue,  and 
smiled  with  your  mouth.  That's  all  the  difference.  These 
creatures  understand  us  a  great  deal  better  than  we  under 
stand  them.  Why,  I  never  drive  these  horses  when  I  am 
finely  dressed  for  fear  they  will  be  ashamed  of  their  old  har 
ness." 

Then  turning  to  the  little  dog  again,  he  said  :  "  Gyp,  get 
down."  Gyp  immediately  jumped  down,  and  curled  up  at  his 
feet.  "  Gyp,  come  up  here,"  said  he,  and  Gyp  mounted 
quickly  to  his  old  seat.  "  Don't  you  see  that  this  dog  under 
stands  the  English  language?"  said  Mr.  Bird;  "and  don't  you 
see  that  we  are  not  so  bright  as  a  dog,  if  we  cannot  learn  his  ? 
Why,  I  know  the  note  of  every  bird,  and  every  insect,  and 
every  animal  on  all  these  hills,  and  I  know  their  ways  and 
habits.  What  is  more,  they  know  I  understand  them,  and  you 
will  hear  how  they  call  me  and  sing  to  me  at  The  Bird's  Nest." 

So  I  had  received  my  first  lesson  from  my  new  teacher,  and 
little  did  he  appreciate  the  impression  it  had  made  upon  me. 
It  gave  me  a  sympathy  with  animal  life  and  an  interest  in  its 
habits  which  have  lasted  until  this  hour.  It  gave  me,  too,  an 


64  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

insight  into  him.  He  had  a  strong  sympathy  in  the  life  of  a 
boy,  for  his  own  sake.  Every  new  boy  was  a  new  study  that 
lie  entered  upon,  not  from  any  sense  of  duty,  or  from  any 
scheme  of  policy,  but  with  a  hearty  interest  excited  by  the  boy 
himself.  He  was  as  much  interested  in  the  animal  play  of  a 
boy  as  he  had  been  in  the  play  of  the  horse.  He  watched  a 
group  of  boys  with  the  same  hearty  amusement  that  held  him 
while  witnessing  the  frolic  of  kittens  and  lambs.  Indeed,  he 
often  played  with  them  ;  and  in  this  sympathy,  freely  mani 
fested,  he  held  the  springs  of  his  wonderful  power  over  them. 

We  soon  arrived  at  The  Bird's  Nest,  and  all  the  horses  were 
passed  into  other  hands.  My  little  trunk  was  loosed,  and 
carried  to  a  room  I  had  not  seen,  and  in  a  straggling  way  we 
entered  the  house. 

Before  we  alighted,  I  took  a  hurried  outside  view  of  my 
future  home.  On  the  whole,  "The  Bird's  Nest"  would  have 
been  a  good  name  for  it  if  a  man  by  any  other  name  had  pre 
sided  over  it.  It  had  its  individual  and  characteristic  beauty, 
because  it  had  been  shaped  to  a  special  purpose  ;  but  it  seemed 
to  have  been  brought  together  at  different  times,  and  from  wide 
distances.  There  was  a  central  old  house,  and  a  hexagonal 
addition,  and  a  tower,  and  a  long  piazza  that  tied  everything 
together.  It  certainly  looked  grand  among  the  humble  houses 
of  the  village ;  though  I  presume  that  a  professional  architect 
would  not  have  taken  the  highest  pleasure  in  it.  As  Mr.  Bird 
stepped  out  of  his  wagon  upon  the  piazza,  and  took  oft"  his  hat,  I 
had  an  opportunity  to  see. him  and  to  fix  my  impressions  of  his 
appearance.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome,  strongly-built  man,  a 
little  past  middle  life,  with  a  certain  fullness  of  habit  that  comes 
of  good  health  and  a  happy  temperament.  His  eye  was  blue, 
his  forehead  high,  and  his  whole  face  bright  and  beaming  with 
good-nature.  His  companion  was  a  woman  above  the  medium 
size,  with  eyes  the  same  color  of  his  own,  into  whose  plainly- 
parted  hair  the  frost  had  crept,  and  upon  whose  honest  face 
and  goodly  figure  hung  that  ineffable  grace  which  we  try  to 
characterize  by  the  word  "  motherly." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  65 

I  heard  the  shouts  of  boys  at  play  upon  the  green,  for  it  was 
after  school  hours,  and  met  half-a-dozen  little  fellows  on  the 
piazza,  who  looked  at  me  with  pleasant  interest  as  "  the  new 
boy  ; "  and  then  we  entered  a  parlor  with  curious  angles,  and 
furniture  that  betrayed  thorough  occupation  and  usage.  There 
were  thrifty  plants  and  beautiful  flowers  in  the  bay-window,  for 
plants  and  flowers  came  as  readily  within  the  circle  of  Mr. 
Bird's  sympathies  as  birds  and  boys.  There  was  evidently  an 
uncovered  stairway  near  one  of  the  doors,  for  we  heard  two  or 
three  boys  running  down  the  steps  with  a  little  more  noise  than 
was  quite  agreeable.  Immediately  Gyp  ran  to  the  door  where 
the  noise  was  manifested,  and  barked  with  all  his  might. 

"  Gyp  is  one  of  my  assistants  in  the  school,"  said  Mr.  Bird, 
in  explanation,  "  especially  in  the  matter  of  preserving  order. 
A  boy  never  runs  down-stairs  noisily  without  receiving  a  scold 
ing  from  him.  He  is  getting  a  little  old  now  and  sensitive,  and 
I  am  afraid  has  not  quite  consideration  enough  for  the  young 
sters." 

I  laughed  at  the  idea  of  having  a  dog  for  a  teacher,  but  with 
my  new  notions  of  Gyp's  capacity  I  was  quite  ready  to  believe 
what  Mr.  Bird  told  me  about  him. 

My  father  found  himself  very  much  at  home  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bird,  and  was  evidently  delighted  with  them,  and  with  my 
prospects  under  their  roof  and  care.  We  had  supper  in  the 
great  dining-room  with  forty  hungry  but  orderly  boys,  a  pleas 
ant  evening  with  music  afterward,  and  an  early  bed.  I  was 
permitted  to  sleep  with  my  father  that  night,  and  he  was  per 
mitted  to  take  me  upon  his  arm,  and  pillow  my  slumbers  there, 
while  he  prayed  for  me  and  secretly  poured  out  his  love  upon 
me. 

Before  we  went  to  sleep  my  father  said  a  few  words  to  me, 
but  those  words  were  new  and  made  a  deep  impression. 

"  My  little  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  have  my  life  in  your  hands. 
If  you  grow  up  into  a  true,  good  man,  1  shall  be  happy,  al 
though  I  may  continue  poor.  1  have  always  worked  hard,  and 
I  am  willing  to  work  even  harder  than  ever,  if  it  is  all  right 


66  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

with  you  ;  but  if  you  disappoint  me  and  turn  out  badly,  you 
will  kill  me.  I  am  living  now,  and  expect  always  to  live,  in 
and  for  my  children.  I  have  no  ambitious  projects  for  myself. 
Providence  has  opened  a  way  for  you  which  I  did  not  antici 
pate.  Do  all  you  can  to  please  the  woman  who  has  under 
taken  to  do  so  much  for  you,  but  do  not  forget  your  father  and 
mother,  and  remember  always  that  it  is  not  possible  for  any 
body  to  love  you  and  care  for  you  as  we  do.  If  you  have  any 
troubles,  come  to  me  with  them,  and  if  you  are  tempted  to  do 
wrong  pray  for  help  to  do  right.  You  will  have  many  struggles 
and  trials — everybody  has  them — but  you  can  do  what  you 
will,  and  become  what  you  wish  to  become." 

The  resolutions  that  night  formed — a  thousand  times  shaken 
and  a  thousand  times  renewed — became  the  determining  and 
fruitful  forces  of  my  life. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  old  black  horse  and  chaise  were 
brought  to  the  door,  and  my  father,  full  of  tender  pain,  took 
leave  of  me,  and  disappeared  at  last  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
I  felt  that  I  was  wholly  separated  from  my  home,  I  cried  as  if 
I  had  been  sure  that  I  had  left  that  home  forever.  The  pas 
sion  wasted  itself  in  Mrs.  Bird's  motherly  arms,  and  then,  with 
words  of  cheer  and  diversions  that  occupied  my  mind,  she  cut 
me  adrift,  to  find  my  own  soundings  in  the  new  social  life  of 
the  school. 

Of  the  first  few  days  of  school-life  there  is  not  much  to  be 
said.  They  passed  pleasantly  enough.  The  aim  of  my  teach 
ers  at  first  was  not  to  push  me  into  study,  but  to  make  me 
happy,  to  teach  me  the  ways  of  my  new  life,  and  to  give  me  an 
opportunity  to  imbibe  the  spirit  of  the  school.  My  apprehen 
sions  were  out  in  every  direction.  I  learned  by  watching 
others  my  own  deficiencies ;  and  my  appetite  for  study  grew 
by  a  natural  process.  I  could  not  be  content,  at  last,  until  I 
had  become  one  with  the  rest  in  work  and  in  acquirements. 

There  lies  before  me  now  a  package  of  my  letters,  made 
sacred  by  my  father's  interest  in  and  perusal  and  preservation 
of  them ;  and,  although  I  have  no  intention  to  burden  these 


ArtJmr  Bonnicastle.  67 

pages  with  their  crudenesses  and  puerilities,  I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  to  reproduce  the  first  which  I  wrote  at  The  Bird's 
Nest,  and  sent  home.  I  shall  spare  to  the  reader  its  wretched 
orthography,  and  reproduce  it  entire,  in  the  hope  that  he  will 
at  least  enjoy  its  unconscious  humor. 

"  THE  BIRD'S  NEST. 
"DEAR  PRECIOUS  FATHER: — 

"  I  have  lost  my  ball.  I  don't  know  where  in  the  world  it  can  be.  It 
seemed  to  get  away  from  me  in  a  curious  style.  Mr.  Bird  is  very  kind, 
and  I  like  him  very  much.  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  lost  my  Barlow  knife 
too.  Mr.  Bird  says  a  Barlow  knife  is  a  very  good  thing.  I  don't  quite 
think  I  have  lost  the  twenty-five  cent  piece.  I  have  not  seen  it  since  yes 
terday  morning,  and  I  think  I  shall  find  it.  Henry  Huhn,  who  is  my 
chum,  and  a  very  smart  boy,  I  can  tell  you,  thinks  the  money  will  be  found. 
Mr.  Bird  says  there  must  be  a  hole  in  the  top  of  my  pocket.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  I  am  afraid  Aunt  Sanderson  will  be  cross  about  it.  Mr. 
Bird  thinks  I  ought  to  give  my  knife  to  the  boy  that  will  find  the  money, 
and  the  money  to 'the  boy  that  will  find  the  knife,  but  I  don't  see  as  I 
should  make  much  in  that  way,  do  you?  I  love  Mrs.  Bird  very  much. 
Miss  Butler  is  the  dearest  young  lady  I  ever  knew.  Mrs.  Bird  kisses  us  all 
when  we  go  to  bed,  and  it  seems  real  good.  I  have  put  the  testament  in 
the  bottom  of  my  trunk,  under  all  the  things.  I  shall  keep  that  if  possible. 
If  Mrs.  Sanderson  finds  out  that  I  have  lost  the  things,  I  wish  you  would 
explain  it  and  tell  her  the  testament  is  safe.  Miss  Butler  has  dark  eye 
brows  and  wears  a  belt.  Mr.  Bird  has  killed  another  woodchuck.  I  won 
der  if  you  left  the  key  of  my  trunk.  It  seems  to  be  gone.  We  have  real 
good  times,  playing  ball  and  taking  walks.  I  have  walked  out  with  Miss 
Butler.  I  wish  mother  could  see  her  hair,  and  I  am  your  son  with  ever  so 
much  love  to  you  and  mother  and  all, 

"ARTHUR  BONNICASTLE." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

IN    WHICH    THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE  LOVE    IS    NOT    PERMITTED    TO 
RUN    AT    AF.L. 

THE  first  night  which  I  spent  in  The  Bird's  Nest,  after  my 
father  left  me,  was  passed  alone,  though  my  room  opened  into 
another  that  was  occupied  by  two  boys.  On  the  following  day 
Mr.  Bird  asked  me  if  I  had  met  with  any  boy  whom  I  would 
like  for  a  room-mate ;  and  I  told  him  at  once  that  Henry 
Hulm  was  the  boy  I  wanted.  He  smiled  at  my  selection,  and 
asked  for  the  reason  of  it ;  and  he  smiled  more  warmly  still 
when  I  told  him  I  thought  he  was  handsome,  and  seemed 
lonely  and  sad.  The  lad  was  at  least  two  years  older  than  I, 
but  among  all  the  boys  he  had  been  my  first  and  supreme 
attraction.  He  was  my  opposite  in  every  particular.  Quiet, 
studious,  keeping  much  by  himself,  and  bearing  in  his  dark 
face  and  eyes  a  look  of  patient  self-repression,  he  enlisted  at 
once  my  curiosity,  my  sympathy  and  my  admiration. 

Henry  was  called  into  our  consultation,  and  Mr.  Bird  in 
formed  him  of  my  choice.  The  boy  smiled  gratefully,  for  he 
had  been  shunned  by  the  ruder  fellows  for  the  same  qualities 
which  had  attracted  me.  As  the  room  I  occupied  was  better 
than  his,  his  trunk  was  moved  into  mine ;  and  while  we 
remained  in  the  school  we  continued  our  relations  and  kept 
the  same  apartment.  If  I  had  any  distinct  motive  of  curiosity 
in  selecting  him  he  never  gratified  it.  He  kept  his  history  cov 
ered,  and  very  rarely  alluded,  in  any  way,  to  his  home  or  his 
family. 

The  one  possession  which  he  seemed  to  prize  more  highly 
than  any  other  was  an  ivory  miniature  portrait  of  his  mother, 
which,  many  a  time  during  our  life  together,  1  saw  him  take 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  69 

from  his  trunk  and  press  to  his  lips.  I  soon  learned  to  respect 
his  reticence  on  topics  which  were  quite  at  home  on  my  own  lips. 
I  suspect  I  did  talking  enough  for  two  boys.  Indeed,  I  threw 
my  whole  life  open  to  him,  with  such  embellishments  as  my 
imagination  suggested.  He  seemed  interested  in  my  talk,  and 
was  apparently  pleased  with  me.  1  brought  a  new  element 
into  his  life,  and  we  became  constant  companions  when  out  of 
school,  as  well  as  when  we  were  in  our  room. 

We  were  always  wakened  in  the  morning  by  a  "whoop  "  and 
"halloo"  that  ran  from  room  to  room  over  the  whole  estab 
lishment.  A  little  bell  started  it  somewhere  ;  and  the  first  boy 
who  heard  it  gave  his  call,  which  was  taken  up  by  the  rest  and 
borne  on  from  bed  to  bed  until  the  whole  brood  was  in  full  cry. 
Thus  the  school  called  itself.  It  was  the  voices  of  merry  and 
wide-awake  boys  that  roused  the  drowsy  ones ;  and  very  rarely 
did  a  dull  and  sulky  face  show  itself  in  the  breakfast-room. 

This  morning  call  was  the  key  to  all  the  affairs  of  the  day 
and  to  the  policy  of  the  school.  Self-direction  and  self- 
government — these  were  the  most  important  of  all  the  lessons 
learned  at  The  Bird's  Nest.  Our  school  was  a  little  community 
brought  together  for  common  objects — the  pursuit  of  useful 
learning,  the  acquisition  of  courteous  manners,  and  the  practice 
of  those  duties  which  relate  to  good  citizenship.  The  only 
laws  of  the  school  were  those  which  were  planted  in  the  con 
science,  reason,  and  sense  of  propriety  of  the  pupils.  The 
ingenuity  with  which  these  were  developed  and  appealed  to  has 
been,  from  that  day  to  this,  the  subject  of  my  unbounded  ad 
miration.  The  boys  were  made  to  feel  that  the  school  was 
their  own,  and  that  they  were  responsible  for  its  good  order. 
Mr.  Bird  was  only  the  biggest  and  best  boy,  and  the  accepted 
president  of  the  establishment.  The  responsibility  of  the  boys 
was  not  a  thing  of  theory  only.  It  was  deeply  realized  in  the 
conscience  and  conduct  of  the  school.  However  careless  and 
refractory  a  new  boy  might  be,  he  soon  learned  that  he  had  a 
whole  school  to  deal  with,  and  that  he  was  not  a  match  for  the 
public  opinion.  lie  might  evade  the  master's  or  a  teacher's 


70  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

will,  but  he  could  not  evade  the  eyes  or  the  sentiments  of  the 
little  fellows  around  him. 

On  the  first  Friday  evening  of  my  term,  I  entered  as  a 
charmed  and  thoroughly  happy  element  into  one  of  the  social 
institutions  of  the  school.  On  every  Friday  evening,  after  the 
hard  labor  of  the  week  was  over,  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
school  to  hold  what  was  called  a  "  reception."  Teachers  and 
pupils  made  the  best  toilet  they  could,  and  spent  the  evening 
in  the  parlors,  dancing,  and  listening  to  music,  and  socially 
receiving  the  towns-people  and  such  strangers  as  might  happen 
to  be  in  the  village.  The  piano  that  furnished  the  music  was 
the  first  I  had  ever  heard,  and  at  least  half  of  my  first  recep 
tion-evening  was  spent  by  its  side,  in  watching  the  skillful  and 
handsome  fingers  that  flew  over  its  mysterious  keys.  I  had 
always  been  taught  that  dancing  was  only  indulged  in  by  wicked 
people  ;  but  there  were  dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  looking  on  ; 
there  was  precious  Miss  Butler  without  her  belt,  leading  little 
fellows  like  myself  through  the  mazes  of  the  figures  ;  there  were 
twenty  innocent  and  happy  boys  on  the  floor,  their  eyes  spark 
ling  with  excitement ;  there  were  fine  ladies  who  had  come  to 
see  their  boys,  and  village  maidens  simply  clad  and  as  fresh  as 
roses  ;  and  I  could  not  make  out  that  there  was  anything  wicked 
about  it. 

It  was  the  theory  of  Mr.  Bird  that  the  more  the  boys  could 
be  brought  into  daily  familiar  association  with  good  and  gra 
cious  women  the  better  it  would  be  for  them.  Accordingly  he 
had  no  men  among  his  teachers,  and  as  his  school  was  the 
social  center  of  the  village,  and  all  around  him  were  interested 
in  his  objects,  there  were  always  ladies  and  young  women  at 
the  receptions  who  devoted  themselves  to  the  happiness  of  the 
boys.  Little  lads  of  less  than  ten  summers  found  no  difficulty 
in  securing  partners  who  were  old  enough  to  be  their  mothers 
and  grandmothers  ;  and  as  1  look  back  upon  the  patient  and 
hearty  efforts  of  these  women,  week  after  week  and  year  after 
year,  to  make  the  boys  happy  and  manly  and  courteous,  .it  en 
hances  my  respect  for  womanhood,  and  for  the  wisdom  which 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  71 

laid  all  its  plans  to  secure  these  attentions  and  this  influence 
for  us.  I  never  saw  a  sheepish-looking  boy  or  a  sheepish-act 
ing  boy  who  had  lived  a  year  at  The  Bird's  Nest.  Through  the 
influence  of  the  young  women  engaged  as  teachers  and  of  those 
who  came  as  sympathetic  visitors,  the  boys  never  failed  to  be 
come  courteous,  self-respectful,  and  fearless  in  society. 

Miss  Butler,  the  principal  teacher,  who  readily  understood 
my  admiration  of  her,  undertook  early  in  the  evening  to  get  me 
upon  the  floor ;  but  it  was  all  too  new  to  me,  and  I  begged  to 
be  permitted  for  one  evening  to  look  on  and  do  nothing.  She 
did  not  urge  me  ;  so  I  played  the  part  of  an  observer.  One 
of  the  first  incidents  of  the  evening  that  attracted  my  attention 
was  the  entrance  in  great  haste  of  a  good-natured,  rollicking  boy, 
whose  name  I  had  learned  from  the  fellows  to  be  Jack  Linton. 
Jack  had  been  fishing  and  had  come  home  late.  His  toilet 
had  been  hurried,  and  he  came  blundering  into  the  room  with 
his  laughing  face  flushed,  his  neck-tie  awry,  and  his  heavy  boots 
on. 

Mr.  Bird,  who  saw  everything,  beckoned  Jack  to  his  side. 
"Jack,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  very  rugged  boy." 

"Am  I  ?  "     And  Jack  laughed. 

"  Yes,  it  is  astonishing  what  an  amount  of  exercise  you  re 
quire,"  said  Mr.  Bird. 

"  Is  it  ?  "     And  Jack  laughed  again. 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  have  your  rough  boots  on  for  another  walk. 
Suppose  you  walk  around  Robin  Hood's  Barn,  and  report 
yourself  in  a  light,  clean  pair  of  shoes,  as  soon  as  you  return." 

Jack  laughed  again,  but  he  made  rather  sorry  work  of  it ; 
and  then  he  went  out.  "  Robin  Hood's  Barn"  was  the  name 
given  to  a  lonely  building  a  mile  distant,  to  which  Mr.  Bird  was 
in  the  habit  of  sending  boys  whose  surplus  vitality  happened  to 
lead  them  into  boisterousness  or  mischief.  Gyp,  who  had  been 
an  attentive  listener  to  the  conversation,  and  apparently  under 
stood  every  word  of  it,  followed  Jack  to  the  door,  and,  having 
dismissed  him  into  the  pleasant  moonlight,  gave  one  or  two 
light  yelps  and  went  back  into  the  drawing-room. 


72  ArtJmr  Bonnicastle. 

Jack  was  a  brisk  walker  and  a  lively  runner,  and  before  an 
hour  had  elapsed  was  in  the  drawing-room  again,  looking  as 
good-natured  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  occurred.  I  looked  at 
his  feet  and  saw  that  they  were  irreproachably  incased  in  light, 
shining  shoes,  and  that  his  neck-tie  had  been  readjusted.  He 
came  directly  to  Mr.  Bird  and  said  :  "  I  have  had  a  very  pleas 
ant  walk,  Mr.  Bird." 

"Ah  !  I'm  delighted,"  responded  the  master,  smiling;  and 
then  added  : 

"  Did  you  meet  anybody  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  met  a  cow." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  said  '  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ?     How's  your  calf?' ' 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bird  very  much  amused. 

"  She  said  the  calf  was  very  well,  and  would  be  tough  enough 
for  the  boys  in  about  two  weeks,"  replied  Jack,  with  a  loud 
laugh. 

Mr.  Bird  enjoyed  the  sally  quite  as  much  as  the  boys  who 
had  gathered  round  him,  and  added  : 

"We  all  know  who  will  want  the  largest  piece,  Jack.  Now 
go  to  your  dancing." 

In  a  minute  afterward,  Jack  was  on  the  floor  with  a  ma 
tronly-looking  lady  to  whom  he  related  the  events  of  the  even 
ing  without  the  slightest  sense  of  annoyance  or  disgrace.  But 
that  was  the  last  time  he  ever  attended  a  reception  in  his  rough 
boots. 

The  evening  was  filled  with  life  and  gayety  and  freedom. 
To  my  unaccustomed  eyes  it  was  a  scene  of  enchantment.  I 
wished  my  father  could  see  it.  I  would  have  given  anything 
and  everything  I  had  to  give  could  he  have  looked  in  upon  it. 
I  was  sure  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  such  amusement,  i 
could  not  imagine  how  a  boy  could  be  made  worse  by  such 
happiness,  and  I  never  discovered  that  he  was.  Indeed,  I  can 
trace  a  thousand  good  and  refining  influences  to  those  even 
ings.  They  were  the  shining  goals  of  every  week's  nice  with 
my  youthful  competitors  ;  and  while  they  were  accounted  sim- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  73 

ply  as  pleasures  by  us,  they  were  regarded  by  the  master  and 
the  teachers  as  among  the  choicest  means  of  education.  ,  The 
manners  of  the  school  were  shaped  by  them  ;  and  I  know  that 
hundreds  of  boys  attribute  to  them  their  release  from  the  bond 
age  of  bashfulness,  under  which  many  a  man  suffers  while  in 
the  presence  of  women  during  all  his  life. 

I  repeat  that  I  have  never  discovered  that  a  boy  was  made 
worse  by  his  experiences  and  exercises  during  those  precious 
evenings ;  and  I  have  often  thought  how  sad  a  thing  it  is  for  a 
child  to  learn  that  he  has  been  deceived  or  misinformed  by  his 
parents  with  relation  to  a  practice  so  charged  with  innocent 
enjoyment.  I  enter  here  no  plea  for  dancing  beyond  a  faith 
ful  record  of  its  effect  upon  the  occupants  of  The  Bird's  Nest. 
I  suppose  the  amusement  may  be  liable  to  abuse  :  most  good 
things  are  ;  and  I  do  not  know  why  this  should  be  an  excep 
tion.  This,  however,  I  am  sure  it  is  legitimate  to  say  :  that 
the  sin  of  abuse,  be  it  great  or  little,  is  venial  compared  with 
that  which  presents  to  the  conscience  as  a  sin  in  itself  that 
which  is  not  a  sin  in  itself,  and  thus  charges  an  innocent  amuse 
ment  with  the  flavor  of  guilt,  and  drives  the  young,  in  their 
exuberant  life  and  love  of  harmonious  play,  beyond  the  pale 
of  Christian  sympathy. 

As  I  recall  the  events  of  the  occasion  I  find  it  impossible  to 
analyze  the  feeling  that  one  figure  among  the  dancers  begot  in 
me.  Whenever  Miss  Butler  was  on  the  floor  I  saw  only  her. 
Her  dark  eyes,  her  heavy  shining  hair,  the  inexpressible  ease  of 
her  motions,  her  sunny  smile, — that  combination  of  graces 
and  manners  which  makes  what  we  call  womanliness, — fasci 
nated  me,  and  inspired  me  with  just  as  much  love  as  it  is  pos 
sible  for  a  boy  to  entertain.  I  am  sure  no  girl  of  my  own  age 
could  have  felt  toward  her  as  I  did.  I  should  have  been 
angry  with  any  boy  who  felt  toward  her  thus,  and  equally 
angry  with  any  boy  who  did  not  admire  her  as  much,  or  who 
should  doubt,  or  undertake  to  cheapen,  her  charms.  How  can 
I  question  that  it  was  the  dawn  within  me  of  the  grand  passion 
— an  apprehension  of  personal  and  spiritual  fitness  for  compan- 


74  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

ionship  ?  Pure  as  childhood,  ins[)ircd  by  personal  loveliness, 
clothing  its  object  with  all  angelic  perfections,  this  boy-love 
for  a  woman  has  always  been  to  me  the  subject  of  pathetic 
admiration,  and  has  proved  that  the  sweetest  realm  of  love  is 
untainted  by  any  breath  of  sense. 

There  was  a  blind  sort  of  wish  within  me  for  possession, 
even  at  this  early  age,  and  I  amused  the  lady  by  giving  utter 
ance  to  my  feelings.  Wearied  with  the  dancing,  she  took  my 
hand  and  led  me  to  a.  retired  seat,  where  we  had  a  delightful 
chat. 

"  I  think  you  were  born  too  soon,"  I  said  to  her,  still  cling 
ing  to  her  hand,  and  looking  my  admiration. 

"  Oh  !  if  I  had  been  born  later,"  she  replied,  "  I  should  not 
be  here.  I  should  be  a  little  girl  somewhere." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  love  you  if  you  were  a  little  girl,"  I 
responded. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  were  not  born  soon  enough,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"  But  if  I  had  been  born  sooner  I  shouldn't  be  here  now," 
I  said. 

"  That's  true,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  that  would  be  very  bad, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes,  ever  so  bad,"  I  said.  "I  wouldn't  miss  being  here 
with  you  for  a  hundred  dollars." 

The  mode  in  which  I  had  undertaken  to  measure  the  pleas 
ure  of  her  society  amused  Miss  Butler  very  much  ;  and  as  I  felt 
that  the  sum  had  not  impressed  her  sufficiently,  I  added  fifty 
to  it.  At  this  she  laughed  heartily,  and  said  I  was  a  strange 
boy,  a  statement  which  I  received  as  pleasant  flattery. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  princess  who  was  put  to  sleep  for 
a  hundred  years  and  kept  young  and  beautiful  through  it  all  ?  " 
I  inquired. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  wish  Mr.  Bird  were  an  enchanter,  and  would  put 
you  to  sleep  until  I  get  to  be  a  man,"  I  said. 

"But  then  i  couldn't  see  you  for  ten  years,"  she  replied. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  75 

"  Oh  dear  ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  it  seems  to  be  all  wrong." 

"  Well,  my  boy,  there  are  a  great  many  things  in  the  world 
that  seem  to  be  all  wrong.  It  is  wrong  for  you  to  talk  such 
nonsense  to  me,  and  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  let  you  do  it,  and  we 
will  not  do  wrong  in  this  way  any  more.  But  I  like  you,  and 
we  will  be  good  friends  always." 

Thus  saying,  my  love  dismissed  me,  and  went  back  among 
the  boys  ;  but  little  did  she  know  how  sharp  a  pang  she  left  in 
my  heart.  The  forbidden  subject  was  never  mentioned  again, 
and  like  other  boys  under  similar  circumstances,  I  survived. 

There  was  one  boy  besides  myself  who  enacted  the  part  of 
an  observer  during  that  evening.  He  was  a  new  boy,  who  had 
entered  the  school  only  a  few  days  before  myself.  He  was  from 
the  city,  and  looked  with  hearty  contempt  upon  the  whole 
entertainment.  He  had  made  no  friends  during  the  fortnight 
which  had  passed  since  he  became  an  occupant  of  The  Bird's 
Nest.  His  haughty  and  supercilious  ways,  his  habit  of  finding 
fault  with  the  school  and  everything  connected  with  it,  his 
overbearing  treatment  of  the  younger  boys,  and  his  idle  habits 
had  brought  upon  him  the  dislike  of  all  the  fellows.  His  name 
was  Frank  Andrews,  though  for  some  reason  we  never  called 
him  by  his  first  name.  He  gave  us  all  to  understand  that  he  was 
a  gentleman's  son,  that  he  was  rich,  and,  particularly,  that  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  doing  what  pleased  him  and  nothing  else. 

He  was  dressed  better  than  any  of  the  other  boys,  and 
carried  a  watch,  the  chain  of  which  he  took  no  pains  to  con 
ceal.  During  all  the  evening  he  stood  here  and  there  about 
the  rooms,  his  arms  folded,  looking  on  with  his  critical  eyes  and 
cynical  smile.  Nobody  took  notice  of  him,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  rather  proud  of  his  isolation.  I  do  not  know  why  he 
should  have  spoken  to  me,  for  he  was  my  senior,  but  toward 
the  close  of  the  evening  he  came  up  to  me  and  said  in  his 
patronizing  way  : 

"Well,  little  chap,  how  do  you  like  it  ?" 

"  Oh  !   I  think  it's  beautiful,"  I  replied. 

"Do  you  !     That's  because  you're  green,"  said  Andrews. 


76  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Is  it ! "  I  responded,  imitating  his  tone.  "Then  they're 
all  green — Mr.  Bird  and  all." 

"There's  where  you're  right,  little  chap,"  said  he.  "They 
are  all  green — Mr.  Bird  and  all." 

"  Miss  Butler  isn't  green,"  I  asserted  stoutly. 

"  Oh  !  isn't  she  ?  "  exclaimed  Andrews,  with  a  degree  of 
sarcasm  in  his  tone  that  quite  exasperated  me.  "  Oh,  no  !  Mi^s 
Butler  isn't  green  of  course,"  he  continued,  as  he  saw  my  face 
reddening.  "She's  a  duck— so  she  is  !  so  she  is  !  and  if  you 
are  a  good  little  boy  you  shall  waddle  around  with  her  some 
time,  so  you  shall ! " 

I  was  so  angry  that  I  am  sure  I  should  have  struck  him  if 
we  had  been  out  of  doors,  regardless  of  his  superior  size  and 
age.  I  turned  sharply  on  my  heel,  and,  retiring  to  a  corner 
of  the  room,  glared  at  him  savagely,  to  his  very  great  amuse 
ment. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  bell  rang  for  bed ;  and  receiv 
ing,  one  after  another,  the  kisses  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird,  and 
bidding  the  guests  a  good-night,  some  of  whom  were  departing 
while  others  remained,  we  went  to  our  rooms. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE  DISCIPLINE    OF   THE  BIRD'S    NEST  AS    ILLUSTRATED    BY  TWO 
STARTLING   PUBLIC   TRIALS. 

SCARCELY  less  interesting  than  the  exercises  of  reception- 
evening  were  those  of  the  "family  meeting,"  as  it  was  called, 
which  was  always  held  on  Sunday.  This  family  meeting  was 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  all  the  institutions  of  The  Bird's 
Nest.  It  was  probably  more  influential  upon  us  than  even  the 
attendance  at  church,  and  our  Bible  lessons  there,  which  occurred 
on  the  same  day,  for  its  aim  and  its  result  were  the  application 
of  the  Christian  rule  to  our  actual,  every-day  conduct. 

I  attended  the  family  meeting  which  was  held  on  my  first 
Sunday  at  the  school  with  intense  interest.  I  suspect,  indeed, 
that  few  more  interesting  and  impressive  meetings  had  ever 
been  held  in  the  establishment. 

After  we  were  all  gathered  in  the  hall,  including  Mrs.  Bird 
and  the  teachers,  as  well  as  the  master,  Mr.  Bird  looked  kindly 
out  upon  us  and  said  : 

"Well,  boys,  has  anything  happened  during  the  week  that 
we  ought  to  discuss  to-day?  Is  the  school  going  along  all 
right  ?  Have  you  any  secrets  buttoned  up  in  your  jackets  that 
you  ought  to  show  to  me  and  to  the  school  ?  Is  there  any 
thing  wrong  going  on  which  will  do  harm  to  the  boys  ?  " 

As  Mr.  Bird  spoke,  changing  the  form  of  his  question 
so  as  to  reach  the  consciences  of  his  boys  from  different  direc 
tions,  and  get  time  to  read  their  faces,  there  was  a  dead  silence. 
When  he  paused,  every  boy  felt  that  his  face  had  been  shrewdly 
read  and  was  still  under  inspection. 

"  Yes,  there  is  something  wrong  :  I  see  it,"  said  Mr.  Bird. 
"  I  see  it  in  several  faces;  but  Tom  Kendrick  can  tell  us  just 


78  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

what  it  is.     And  he  will  tell  us  just  what  it  is,  for  Tom  Ken- 
drick  never  lies." 

All  eyes  were  instantly  turned  on  Tom,  a  blushing,  frank-faced 
boy  of  twelve.  Close  beside  him  sat  Andrews,  the  new  boy, 
who  had  so  roused  my  anger  on  Friday  night.  His  face  wore 
the  same  supercilious,  contemptuous  expression  that  it  wore 
that  night.  The  whole  proceeding  seemed  to  impress  him 
as  unworthy  even  the  toleration  of  a  gentleman's  son,  yet  I  felt 
sure  that  he  would  be  in  some  way  implicated  in  Tom  Ken- 
drick's  revelations.  Indeed,  there  was,  or  I  thought  there  was, 
a  look  of  conscious  guilt  on  his  face  and  the  betrayal  of 
excitement  in  his  eye,  when  Tom  rose  to  respond  to  Mr.  Bird's 
bidding. 

Tom  hesitated,  evidently  very  unwilling  to  begin.  He 
looked  blushingly  at  Mrs.  Bird  and  the  teachers,  then  looked 
down,  and  tried  to  start,  but  his  tongue  was  dry. 

"  Well,  Tom,  we  are  all  ready  to  hear  you,"  said  Mr.  Bird. 

After  a  little  stammering,  Tom  pronounced  the  name  of 
Andrews,  and  told  in  simple,  straightforward  language,  how 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  relating  stories  and  using  words 
which  were  grossly  immodest ;  how  he  had  done  this  repeatedly 
in  his  hearing  and  against  his  protests,  and  furthermore,  how 
he  had  indulged  in  this  language  in  the  presence  of  smaller 
boys.  Tom  also  testified  that  other  boys  besides  himself  had 
warned  Andrews  that  if  he  did  not  mend  his  habit  he  would  be 
reported  at  the  family  meeting. 

There  was  the  utmost  silence  in  the  room.  The  dropping 
of  a  pin  could  have  been  heard  in  any  part  of  it,  for,  while  the 
whole  school  disliked  Andrews,  his  arrogance  had  impressed 
them,  and  they  felt  that  he  would  be  a  hard  boy  to  deal  with. 
I  watched  alternately  the  accuser  and  the  accused,  and  I 
trembled  in  every  nerve  to  see  the  passion  depicted  on  the  fea 
tures  of  the  latter.  His  face  became  pale  at  first — deathly  pale 
— then  livid  and  pinched — and  then  it  burned  with  a  hot  flame 
of  shame  and  anger.  He  sat  as  if  he  were  expecting  the 
roof  to  fall,  and  were  bracing  himself  to  resist  the  shock. 


Arthur  Bonnie 'as tie.  79 

When  Tom  took  his  seat  Andrews  leaned  toward  him  and 
muttered  something  in  his  ear. 

"  What  does  he  say  to  you,  Tom  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Bird. 

"  He  says  he'll  flog  me  for  telling,"  answered  Tom. 

"We  will  attend  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Bird.  "But  first  let  us 
hear  from  others  about  this  matter.  Has  any  other  boy  heard 
this  foul  language  ?  Henry  Hulm,  can  you  tell  us  anything?" 

Henry  was  another  boy  who  always  told  the  truth  ;  and 
Henry's  testimony  was  quite  as  positive  as  Tom's,  though  it 
was  given  with  even  more  reluctance.  Other  boys  testified  in 
confirmation  of  the  report  of  Tom  and  Henry,  until,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  school,  Andrews  was  shamefully  guilty  of  the  mat 
ter  charged  upon  him.  I  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  real  char 
acter  of  the  offense,  and  wondered  whether  his  calling  Miss 
Butler  a  duck  was  in  the  line  of  his  sin,  and  whether  my  testi 
mony  to  the  fact  was  called  for.  No  absurdity,  such  as  this 
would  have  been,  broke  in  upon  the  earnest  solemnity  of  the 
occasion,  however,  and  the  house  was  silent  until  Mr.  Bird  said  : 

"  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself,  Andrews?" 

The  boy  was  no  whit  humbled.  Revenge  was  in  his  heart 
and  defiance  in  his  eye.  He  looked  Mr.  Bird  boldly  in  the 
face  ;  his  lips  trembled,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

"  Nothing  ? "  Mr.  Bird's  voice  was  severe  this  time,  and 
rang  like  a  trumpet. 

Andrews  bit  his  lips,  and  blurted  out :  "  I  think  it  is  mean 
for  one  boy  to  tell  on  another." 

"I  don't,"  responded  Mr.  Bird;  "but  I'll  tell  you  what  is 
mean  :  it  is  mean  for  one  boy  to  pollute  another — to  fill  his 
mind  with  words  and  thoughts  that  make  him  mean  ;  and  I 
should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  I  have  any  other  boy  in  school 
who  is  half  as  mean  as  you  are.  If  there  is  anything  to  be 
said  about  mean  boys,  you  are  not  the  boy  to  say  it." 

At  first,  I  confess  that  I  was  (mite  inclined  to  sympathixe 
with  the  lad  in  his  view  of  the  dishonor  of  "telling  on"  a  boy, 
notwithstanding  my  old  grudge  ;  but  my  judgment  went  with 
the  majority  at  last. 


80  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Mr.  Bird  said  that,  as  there  were  several  new  boys  in  the  school, 
it  would  be  best,  perhaps,  to  talk  over  this  matter  of  reporting 
one  another's  bad  conduct  to  him  and  to  the  school. 

"  When  boys  first  come  here,"  said  Mr.  Bird,  "  they  invariably 
have  those  false  notions  of  honor  which  lead  them  to  cover  up 
all  the  wrong-doings  of  their  mates  ;  but  they  lose  them  just  as 
;,oon  as  they  find  themselves  responsible  for  the  good  order  of 
our  little  community.  Now  we  are  all  citizens  of  this  little  town 
of  Hillsborough,  in  which  we  live.  We  have  our  own  town 
authorities  and  our  magistrate,  and  we  are  all  interested  in  the 
good  order  of  the  village.  Suppose  a  man  should  come  here 
(o  live  who  is  in  the  habit  of  robbing  hen-roosts,  or  setting 
barns  on  fire,  or  getting  drunk  and  beating  his  wife  and  chil 
dren  :  is  it  a  matter  of  honor  among  those  citizens  who  behave 
themselves  properly  to  shield  him  in  his  crimes,  and  refrain 
from  speaking  of  him  to  the  authorities?  Why,  the  thing  is 
absurd.  As  good  citizens — as  honorable  citizens — we  must  re 
port  this  man,  for  he  is  a  public  enemy.  He  is  not  only  dan 
gerous  to  us,  but  he  is  a  disgrace  to  us.  So  long  as  he  is  per 
mitted  to  live  among  us,  unreproved  and  uncorrected,  every  man 
in  the  community  familiar  with  his  misdeeds  is,  to  a  certain  exr 
tent,  responsible  for  them.  Very  well :  we  have  in  this  house 
a  little  republic,  and  if  you  can  learn  to  govern  yourselves  here, 
and  to  take  care  of  the  enemies  of  the  order  and  welfare  of  the 
school,  you  will  become  good  citizens,  prepared  to  perform  the 
duties  of  good  citizenship.  I  really  know  of  nothing  more  de 
moralizing  to  a  boy,  or  more  ruinous  to  a  school,  than  that 
false  sense  of  honor  which  leads  to  the  covering  up  of  one  an 
other's  faults  of  conduct." 

Mr.  Bird  paused,  and,  fixing  his  eye  upon  Andrews,  who  had 
not  once  taken  his  eye  from  him,  resumed:  "Now  here  is  a 
lad  who  has  come  to  us  from  a  good  family  ;  and  they  have 
sjnt  him  here  to  get  him  away  from  bad  influences  and  bad 
companions.  He  comes  into  a  community  of  boys  who  are 
trying  to  lead  good  lives,  and  instead  of  adopting  the  spirit  of 
the  school,  and  trying  to  become  one  with  us,  he  still  holds  the 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  81 

spirit  of  the  bad  companions  of  his  previous  life,  and  goes  per 
sistently  to  work  to  make  all  around  him  as  impure  and  base 
as  himself.  Nearly  all  these  boys  have  mothers  and  sisters, 
who  would  be  pained  almost  to  distraction  to  learn  that  here, 
upon  these  pure  hills,  they  are  drinking  in  social  poison  with 
every  breath.  How  am  I  to  guard  you  from  this  evil  if  I  do 
not  know  of  it?  How  can  I  protect  you  from  harm  if  you 
shield  the  boy  who  harms  you  ?  There  is  no  mischief  of  which  a 
boy  is  capable  that  will  not  breed  among  you  like  a  pestilence 
if  you  cover  it ;  and  instead  of  sending  you  back  to  your  homes 
at  last  with  healthy  bodies  and  healthy  minds  and  pure  spirits, 
I  shall  be  obliged,  with  shame  and  tears,  to  return  you  soiled 
and  spotted  and  diseased.  Is  it  honorable  to  protect  crime  ? 
Is  it  honorable  to  shield  one  who  dishonors  and  damages  you  ? 
Is  it  honorable  to  disappoint  your  parents  and  to  cheat  me  ? 
Is  it  honorable  to  permit  these  dear  little  fellows  to  be  spoiled, 
when  the  wicked  lad  who  is  spoiling  them  is  allowed  to  go  free 
of  arrest  and  conviction  ?  " 

Of  course  I  cannot  pretend  to  reproduce  the  exact  words  in 
which  Mr.  Bird  clothed  his  little  argumentative  address.  I  was 
too  young  at  the  time  to  do  more  than  apprehend  the  meaning  of 
it :  and  the  words  that  I  give  are  mainly  remembered  from  rep 
etitions  of  the  same  argument  in  the  years  that  followed.  The 
argument  and  the  lesson,  however,  in  their  substance  and  prac 
tical  bearings,  I  remember  perfectly. 

Continuing  to  speak,  and  releasing  Andrews  from  his  regard 
for  a  moment,  Mr.  Bird  said  :  "  I  want  a  vote  on  this  question. 
I  desire  that  you  all  vote  with  perfect  freedom.  If  you  are  not 
thoroughly  convinced  that  I  am  right  in  this  matter,  I  wish  you 
to  vote  against  me.  Now  all  those  boys  who  believe  it  to  be 
an  honorable  thing  to  report  the  persistently  bad  conduct  of  a 
schoolmate  will  rise  and  stand." 

Every  boy  except  Andrews  rose,  and  with  head  erect  stood 
squarely  upon  his  feet.  The  culprit  looked  from  side  to  side 
with  a  sneer  upon  his  lip,  that  hardened  into  the  old  curl  of 

defiance  as  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Mr.  Bird's  face  again. 
4* 


82  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Bird,  "now  sit  down,  and  remember 
that  you  are  making  rules  for  the  government  of  yourselves. 
This  question  is  settled  for  this  term,  and  there  is  to  be  no 
complaint  hereafter  about  what  you  boys  call  "  telling  on  one 
another."  I  do  not  wish  you  to  come  to  me  as  tattlers.  In 
deed,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  come  to  me  at  all.  If  any  boy 
does  a  wrong  which  I  ought  to  know,  you  are  simply  to  tell 
him  to  report  to  me  what  he  has  done,  and  if  he  and  I  cannot 
settle  the  matter  together  I  will  call  upon  you  to  help  us. 
There  will  be  frictions  and  vexations  among  forty  boys  ;  I 
know  that,  and  about  these  I  wish  to  hear  nothing.  Settle 
these  matters  among  yourselves.  Be  patient  and  good-natured 
with  each  other ;  but  all  those  things  that  interfere  with  the 
order,  purity,  and  honor  of  the  school — all  those  things  that 
refuse  to  be  corrected — must  be  reported.  I  think  we  under 
stand  one  another.  The  school  is  never  to  suffer  in  order  to 
save  the  exposure  and  punishment  of  a  wrong-doer. 

"  As  for  this  boy,  who  has  offended  the  school  so  grossly 
and  shown  so  defiant  a  spirit,  I  propose,  with  the  private  as 
sistance  of  the  boys  who  have  testified  against  him,  to  make 
out  a  literal  report  of  his  foul  language  and  forward  it  to  his 
mother,  while  at  the  same  time  I  put  him  into  the  stage-coach 
and  send  him  home." 

It  was  a  terrible  judgment,  and  I  can  never  forget  the  pas 
sion  depicted  upon  Andrews'  face  as  he  comprehended  it.  He 
seemed  like  one  paralyzed. 

"  Every  boy,"  said  Mr.  Bird,  "who  is  in  favor  of  this  punish 
ment  will  hold  up  his  right  hand." 

Two  or  three  hands  started  to  go  up  among  the  smaller  boys, 
but  as  their  owners  saw  that  they  had  no  support,  they  were  drawn 
down  again.  Four  or  five  of  the  boys  were  in  tears,  and  dear 
Mr.  Bird's  eyes  were  full.  He  gathered  at  a  glance  the  mean 
ing  of  the  scene,  and  was  much  moved.  "  Well,  Tom  Ken- 
di  ick,  you  were  the  first  to  testify  against  him ;  what  have  you 
to  say  against  this  punishment?" 

Tom  rose  with  his  lips   trembling,  and  every  nerve  full  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  83 

excitement.  "Please,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "I  should  like  to  have 
you  give  Andrews  another  chance.  I  think  it's  an  awful  thing 
to  send  a  boy  home  without  giving  him  more  than  one  chance." 

Tom  sat  down  ajid  blew  his  nose  very  loud,  as  a  measure  of 
relief. 

I  watched  Andrews  with  eager  eyes  during  the  closing  pas 
sages  of  his  trial.  When  Tom  rose  on  behalf  of  the  whole 
school  to  plead  for  him — that  he  might  have  one  more  chance 
• — the  defiant  look  faded  from  his  face,  and  he  gave  a  convulsive 
gulp  as  if  his  heart  had  risen  to  his  throat  and  he  were  struggling 
to  keep  it  down.  When  Tom  sat  down,  Andrews  rose  upon  his 
feet  and  staggered  and  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then,  overcome 
by  shame,  grief  and  gratitude,  he  ran  rather  than  walked  to 
where  Mrs.  Bird  was  sitting  near  her  husband,  and  with  a  wild 
burst  of  hysterical  sobbing  threw  himself  upon  his  knees,  arid 
buried  his  face  in  the  dear  motherly  lap  that  had  comforted  so 
many  boyish  troubles  before.  The  appeal  from  man  to  woman 
— from  justice  to  mercy • — moved  by  the  sympathy  of  the  boys, 
was  the  most  profoundly  touching  incident  I  had  ever  witnessed, 
and  I  wept  almost  as  heartily  as  did  Andrews  himself.  In 
truth,  I  do  not  think  there  was  a  dry  eye  in  the  room. 

"  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Bird,  "  I  think  you  are  right.  You  have 
helped  me,  and  helped  us  all.  The  lad  ought  to  have  another 
chance,  and  he  shall  have  one  if  he  desires  it.  The  rest  of 
this  matter  you  can  safely  leave  to  Mrs.  Bird  and  myself.  Now 
remember  that  this  is  never  to  be  alluded  to.  If  the  lad  remains 
and  does  right,  or  tries  to  do  right,  he  is  to  be  received  and  cher 
ished  by  you  all.  No  one  of  us  is  so  perfect  that  he  does  not 
need  the  charity  of  his  fellows.  If  Andrews  has  bad  habits, 
you  must  help  him  to  overcome  them.  Be  brothers  to  him  in 
all  your  future  intercourse,  as  you  have  been  here  to-day ;  and 
as  we  have  had  business  enough  for  one  family  meeting,  you 
may  pass  out  and  leave  him  with  us." 

"  (lorry  !  "  exclaimed  Jack  Linton,  wiping  his  eyes  and  wring 
ing  his  handkerchief  as  he  left  the  door,  "  wasn't  that  a  freshet  ? 
Wettest  time  1  ever  saw  in  Hillsborongh." 


84  Arthur  Bonnicastle.  • 

But  the  boys  were  not  in  a  jesting  mood,  and  Jack's  drolleries 
were  not  received  with  the  usual  favor.  Every  thoughtful  and 
sympathetic  lad  retired  with  a  tableau  on  his  memory  never  to  be 
forgotten — a  benignant  man  looking  tearfully  and  most  affec 
tionately  upon  him,  and  a  sweet-faced,  large-hearted  woman 
pillowing  in  her  lap  the  head  of  a  kneeling  boy,  whose  destiny 
for  all  the  untold  and  unguessed  ages  was  to  be  decided  there 
and  then. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  we  saw  anything  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bird.  When  they  issued  from  their  retirement  they 
were  accompanied  by  a  boy  who  was  as  great  a  stranger  to 
himself  as  he  was  to  the  school.  Conquered  and  humbled, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  he  sought  his  room, 
and  none  of  us  saw  his  face  until  the  school  was  called  together 
on  Monday  morning.  His  food  was  borne  to  his  room  by  Mrs. 
Bird,  who  in  her  own  way  counseled  and  comforted  him,  and  pre 
pared  him  to  encounter  his  new  relations  with  the  institution. 
The  good,  manly  hearts  of  the  boys  never  manifested  their 
quality  more  strikingly  than  when  they  undertook  on  Monday 
to  help  Andrews  into  his  new  life.  The  obstacles  were  all  taken 
out  of  his  path — obstacles  which  his  own  spirit  and  life  had 
planted — and  without  a  taunt,  or  a  slight,  or  a  manifestation 
of  revenge  in  any  form,  he  was  received  into  the  brother 
hood. 

On  Monday  evening  we  were  somewhat  surprised  to  see  him 
appear,  dressed  in  his  best,  his  hands  nicely  gloved,  making  his 
way  across  the  village  green.  No  one  questioned  him,  and  all 
understood  the  case  as  he  turned  in  at  the  gate  which  led  to  the 
home  of  the  village  minister. 

When  any  lad  had  behaved  in  an  unseemly  manner  at  church, 
it  was  Mr.  Bird's  habit  to  compel  him  to  dress  himself  for  a  call, 
and  visit  the  pastor  with  an  apology  for  his  conduct.  "It  is  not 
a  punishment,  my  boy,"  Mr.  Bird  used  to  say,  "  but  it  is  what 
one  gentleman  owes  to  another.  Any  boy  who  so  far  forgets 
his  manners  as  to  behave  improperly  in  the  presence  of  a  clergy 
man  whose  ministration  he  is  attending  owes  him  an  apology, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  85 

if  he  proposes   to  be  considered  a  gentleman ;  and  he  must 
make  it,  or  he  cannot  associate  with  me  or  my  school." 

In  this  case  he  had  made  conformity  to  his  rule  a  test  of  the 
genuineness  of  the  boy's  penitence,  and  a  trial  of  his  newly-pro 
fessed  loyalty.  The  trial  was  a  severe  one,  but  the  result  grati 
fied  all  the  boys  as  much  as  it  did  dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird. 

I  was  very  much  excited  by  the  exposure  of  Andrews,  and 
put  a  good  many  serious  questions  to  myself  in  regard  to  my 
own  conduct.  The  closing  portion  of  the  Sunday  evening  on 
which  the  event  occurred  was  spent  by  several  boys  and  myself 
in  our  rooms.  We  were  so  near  each  other  that  we  could  easily 
converse  through  the  open  doors,  and.  I  was  full  of  questions. 

"  What  do  you  think  Mr.  Bird  will  do  with  Andrews  ?  "  1  in 
quired  of  Jack  Linton. 

"Oh,  nothing  :  he's  squelched,"  said  Jack. 

"  I  should  think  he  would  punish  him,"  I  said,  "  for  I  know 
Mr.  Bird  was  angry." 

"Yes,"  responded  Jack,  "the  old  fellow  fires  up  sometimes 
like  everything;  but  you  can't  flail  a  boy  when  he's  got  his 
head  in  a  woman's  lap,  can  you,  you  little  coot?" 

"That's  the  way  my  mother  always  flailed  me,  any  way,"  I 
said,  at  which  Jack  and  all  the  boys  gave  a  great  laugh. 

"  Flailing,"  said  Jack,  taking  up  a  moralizing  strain,  when 
the  laugh  was  over,  "  don't  pay.  The  last  school  I  went  to  be 
fore  I  came  here  was  full  of  no  end  of  flailing.  There  gets  to 
be  a  sort  of  sameness  about  it  after  a  while.  Confound  that 
old  ruler !  I  used  to  get  it  about  every  day — three  or  four 
whacks  on  a  fellow's  hand ;  first  it  stung  and  then  it  was  numb  ; 
and  it  always  made  me  mad,  or  else  I  didn't  care.  There  isn't 
quite  so  much  sameness  about  a  raw-hide,  for  sometimes  you 
catch  it  on  your  legs  and  sometimes  on  your  shoulders,  but 
there  gets  to  be  a  sort  of  sameness  about  that  too.  But  here 
in  this  school !  My  !  You  never  know  what's  coming.  Say, 
boys,  do  you  remember  that  day  when  I  was  making  such  a  row 
out  in  the  yard,  how  Mr.  Bird  made  me  take  a  fish-horn,  and 
blow  it  at  each  corner  of  the  church  on  the  green  ?  " 


86  ArtJnir  Bonnicastlc. 

The  boys  laughed,  and  Henry  Huim  said  :  "  Yes,  Jack,  but 
you  liked  that  better  than  that  other  punishment  when  he  sent 
you  out  into  the  grove  to  yell  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

"  I'll  bet  I  did,"  responded  Jack.  "  I  got  so  hoarse  that  time 
I  couldn't  speak  the  truth  for  a  week,  but  that's  enough  better 
than  meditating.  If  there's  anything  I  hate  it's  meditating  on 
my  misdemeanors  and  things,  kneeling  before  a  tree  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  like  a  great  heathen  limy.  I  suppose  half  the 
people  thought  I  was  praying  like  an  old  Pharisee.  Gorry  ! 
If  the  minister  had  found  me  there  I  believe  he'd  have  kneeled 
right  by  the  side  of  a  fellow;  and  wouldn't  that  have  been  a 
pretty  show  !  Did  any  of  you  ever  hug  a  tree  for  an  hour?  " 

None  of  them  ever  did.  "  It's  awful  tiresome,"  continued 
Jack,  upon  whose  punishments  Mr.  Bird  seemed  to  have  exer 
cised  all  his  ingenuities.  "It's  awful  tiresome  and  it  isn't  a  bit 
interesting.  If  it  was  only  a  birch-tree  a  fellow  might  amuse 
himself  gnawing  the  bark,  but  mine  was  a  hemlock  with  an  ant- 
heap  at  the  bottom.  Oh  !  I  tell  you,  my  stockings  wanted 
tending  to  when  I  got  through  :  more  ants  in  'em  than  you 
could  count  in  a  week.  Got  a  little  exercise  out  of  it,  though 
—fighting  one  foot  with  the  other.  After  all  it's  better  than  it 
is  when  there's  so  much  sameness.  It's  tough  enough  when 
you  are  at  it,  but  it  doesn't  make  you  mad,  and  it's  funny  to 
think  of  afterwards.  I  tell  you,  old  Bird — 

"  Order  !  Order  !  Order  !  "  came  from  all  the  boys  within 
hearing. 

"Well,  what's  broke  now?"  inquired  Jack. 

"There  isn't  any  Old  Bird,  in  the  establishment,"  said  one 
of  them. 

"  Mr.  Bird,  then.  Confound  you,  you've  put  me  out.  I  for 
get  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

Here  I  took  the  opportunity  to  inquire  whether  any  sins  of 
the  boys  were  punishable  by  "flailing." 

"Yes,"  replied  Jack,  "big  lying  and  tobacco.  Unless  a  fel 
low  breaks  right  in  two  in  the  middle,  as  Andrews  did  to-day, 
he'd  better  make  his  will  before  he  does  anything  with  either  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  87 

'em.  Old  Bird — Mr.  Bird,  I  mean — don't  stand  the  weakest 
sort  of  a  cigar  ;  and  look  here,  Arthur  Bonnicastle"  (suddenly 
turning  to  me),  "you're  a  little  blower,  and  you'd  better  hold 
up.  If  you  don't,  you'll  find  out  whether  there's  any  flailing 
done  here." 

The  conversation  went  on,  but  I  had  lost  my  interest  in  it. 
The  possibility  of  being  punished  filled  me  with  a  vague  alarm. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  characterized  as  "a  little 
blower,"  but  my  sober  and  conscientious  chum  had  plainly  told 
me  of  my  fault,  and  I  knew  that  many  statements  which  I  had 
made  during  my  short  stay  in  the  school  would  not  bear  exami 
nation.  I  resolved  within  myself  that  I  would  reform,  but  the 
next  day  I  forgot  my  resolution,  and  the  next,  and  the  next, 
until,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  my  words  were  good  for  nothing 
among  the  boys  as  vouchers  for  the  truth.  I  received  my  cor 
rection  in  due  time,  as  my  narrative  will  show. 

My  readers  will  have  seen  already  that  The  Bird's  Nest  was 
not  very  much  like  other  schools,  though  I  find  it  difficult  to 
choose  from  the  great  variety  of  incidents  with  which  my  mem 
ory  is  crowded  those  which  will  best  illustrate  its  peculiarities. 
The  largest  liberty  was  given  to  us,  and  we  were  simply  respon 
sible  for  the  manner  in  which  we  used  it.  We  had  the  freedom 
of  long  distances  of  road  and  wide  spaces  of  field  and  forest. 
Indeed,  there  was  no  limit  fixed  to  our  wanderings,  except  the 
limit  of  time.  There  were  no  feuds  between  the  town-boys 
and  the  school.  It  was  not  uncdmmon  to  see  them  at  our 
receptions,  and  everybody  in  Hillsborough  was  glad  when  The 
Bird's  Nest  was  full. 

During  the  first  week  of  my  active  study  I  got  very  tired,  and 
after  the  violent  exercise  of  the  play-ground  I  often  found  my 
self  so  much  oppressed  by  the  desire  for  sleep  that  it  was 
simply  impossible  for  me  to  hold  up  my  head.  It  was  on  one 
such  occasion  that  my  sleepy  eyes  caught  the  wide-awake 
glance  of  Mr.  Bird,  and  the  beckoning  motion  of  his  finger.  1 
went  to  his  side,  and  he  lifted  me  to  his  knee.  Pillowing  my 
head  upon  his  broad  breast,  I  went  to  sleep  ;  and  thus  holding 


88  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

me  with  his  strong  arm  he  went  on  with  the  duties  of  the 
school.  Afterwards,  when  similarly  oppressed,  or  when  lan 
guid  with  indisposition,  I  sought  the  same  resting-place  many 
times,  and  was  never  refused.  A  scene  like  this  was  not  an 
uncommon  one.  It  stirred  neither  surprise  nor  mirth  among 
the  boys.  It  fitted  into  the  life  of  the  family  so  naturally  that 
it  never  occasioned  remark. 

it  must  have  been  three  weeks  or  a  month  after  I  entered 
the  school  that,  on  a  rainy  holiday,  as  I  was  walking  through 
one  of  the  halls  alone,  I  was  met  by  two  boys  who  ordered  me 
peremptorily  to  "  halt."  Both  had  staves  in  their  hands,  taller 
than  themselves,  and  one  of  them  addressed  me  with  the  words  : 
"  Arthur  Bonnicastle,  you  are  arrested  in  the  name  of  The 
High  Society  of  Inquiry,  and  ordered  to  appear  before  that 
august  tribunal,  to  answer  for  your  sins  and  misdemeanors. 
Right  about  face  !  " 

The  movement  had  so  much  the  air  of  mystery  and  romance 
that  I  was  about  equally  pleased  and  scared.  Marching  be 
tween  the  two  officials,  I  was  led  directly  to  my  own  room, 
which  I  was  surprised  to  find  quite  full  of  boys,  all  of  whom 
were  grave  and  silent.  I  looked  from  one  to  another,  puzzled 
beyond  expression,  though  I  am  sure  I  preserved  an  unruffled 
manner,  and  a  confident  and  even  smiling  face.  Indeed,  I 
supposed  it  to  be  some  sort  of  a  lark,  entered  upon  for  passing 
away  the  time  while  confined  to  the  house. 

"  We  have  secured  the  Offender,"  said  one  of  my  captors, 
"  and  now  have  the  satisfaction  of  presenting  him  before  this 
honorable  Society." 

"  The  prisoner  will  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
look  at  me,"  said  the  presiding  officer,  in  a  tone  of  dignified 
severity. 

I  was  accordingly  marched  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
left  alone,  where  I  stood  with  folded  arms,  as  became  the  grand 
occasion. 

"Arthur  Bonnicastle,"  said  the  officer  before  mentioned, 
''you  are  brought  before  The  High  Society  of  Inquiry  on  a 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  89 

charge  of  telling  so  many  lies  that  no  dependence  whatever 
can  be  placed  upon  your  words.  What  have  you  to  reply  to 
this  charge.  Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?  " 

"I  am  not  guilty.  Who  says  I  am?"  I  exclaimed  indig 
nantly. 

"  Henry  Hulm,  advance  ! "  said  the  officer. 

Henry  rose,  and  walking  by  me,  took  a  position  near  the 
officer,  at  the  head  of  the  room. 

"  Henry  Hulm,  you  will  look  upon  the  prisoner  and  tell  the 
Society  whether  you  know  him." 

"  I  know  him  well.     He  is  my  chum,"  replied  Henry. 

"What  is  his  general  character?" 

"  He  is  bright  and  very  amiable." 

"  Do  you  consider  him  a  boy  of  truth  and  veracity?  " 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Has  he  deceived  you  ?"  inquired  the  officer.  "  If  he  has, 
please  to  state  the  occasion  and  circumstances." 

"  No,  your  Honor.  He  has  never  deceived  me.  I  always 
know  when  he  lies  and  when  he  speaks  the  truth." 

"  Have  you  ever  told  him  of  his  crimes,  and  warned  him  to 
desist  from  them?" 

"I  have,"  replied  Henry,  "many  times." 

"  Has  he  shown  any  disposition  to  mend  ?  " 

"  None  at  all,  your  honor." 

"  What  is  the  character  of  his  falsehood  ?  " 

"  He  tells,"  replied  Henry,  "  stunning  stories  about  himself. 
Great  things  are  always  happening  to  him,  and  he  is  always 
performing  the  most  wonderful  deeds." 

I  now  began  with  great  shame  and  confusion  to  realize  that 
I  was  to  be  exposed  to  ridicule.  The  tears  came  into  my  eyes 
and  dropped  from  my  cheeks,  but  I  would  not  yield  to  the  im 
pulse  either  to  cry  or  to  attempt  to  ily. 

"  WTill  you  give  us  some  specimens  of  his  stories  ?  "  said  the 
officer. 

"  I  will,"  responded  Henry,  "  but  I  can  do  it  best  by  asking 
him  questions." 


90  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  officer,  with  a  polite  bow.  "Pursue 
the  course  you  think  best." 

"Arthur,"  said  Henry,  addressing  me  directly,  "  did  you  ever 
tell  me  that,  when  you  and  your  father  were  on  the  way  to 
tliis  school,  your  horse  went  so  fast  that  he  ran  down  a  black 
fox  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  cut  off  his  tail  with  the  wheel 
of  the  chaise,  and  that  you  sent  that  tail  home  to  one  of  your 
sisters  to  wear  in  her  winter  hat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  I  responded,  with  my  face  flaming  and  painful 
with  shame. 

"And  did  your  said  horse  really  run  down  said  fox  in  the 
middle  of  said  road,  and  cut  off  said  tail ;  and  did  you  send 
home  said  tail  to  said  sister  to  be  worn  in  said  hat  ?  "  inquired 
the  judge,  with  a  low,  grum  voice.  "The  prisoner  will  answer 
so  that  all  can  hear." 

"  No,"  I  replied,  and,  looking  for  some  justification  of  my 
story,  I  added  :  "  but  I  did  see  a  black  fox — a  real  black  fox, 
as  plain  as  day  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  ran  around  the  room  in  chorus.  "  He 
did  see  a  black  fox,  a  real  black  fox,  as  plain  as  day  !  " 

"The  witness  will  pursue  his  inquiries,"  said  the  officer. 

"Arthur,"  Henry  continued,  "did  you  or  did  you  not  tell 
me  that  when  on  the  way  to  this  school  you  overtook  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bird  in  their  wagon,  that  you  were  invited  into  the  wagon 
by  Mrs.  Bird,  and  that  one  of  Mr.  Bird's  horses  chased  a  calf 
on  the  road,  caught  it  by  the  ear  and  tossed  it  over  the  fence 
and  broke  its  leg  ?  " 

"I  s'pose  I  did,"  I  said,  growing  desperate. 

"  And  did  said  horse  really  chase  said  calf,  and  catch  him  by 
said  ear,  and  toss  him  over  said  fence,  and  break  said  leg  ?  "  in 
quired  the  officer. 

"  He  didn't  catch  him  by  the  ear,"  I  replied  doggedly,  "  but 
he  really  did  chase  a  calf." 

"  Oil !  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  chimed  in  the  chorus.  "  He  didn't  catch 
him  by  the  ear,  but  he  really  did  chase  a  calf!  " 

"Witness,"  said  the  officer,  "you  will  pursue  your  inquiries." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  91 

"  Arthur,  did  you  or  did  you  not  tell  me,"  Henry  went  on, 
"  that  you  have  an  old  friend  who  is  soon  to  go  to  sea,  and  that 
he  has  promised  to  bring  you  a  male  and  female  monkey,  a 
male  and  female  bird  of  paradise,  a  barrel  of  pineapples,  and  a 
Shetland  pony  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  I  told  you  exactly  that,"  I  replied. 

"Did  you  or  did  you  not  tell  him  so?"  said  the  officer,  se 
verely. 

"  Perhaps  I  did,"  I  responded. 

"  And  did  said  friend,  who  is  soon  to  go  to  said  sea,  really 
promise  to  bring  you  said  monkeys,  said  birds  of  paradise,  said 
pine-apples,  and  said  pony  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  really  have  an  old  friend  who  is  going 
to  sea,  and  he'll  bring  me  anything  I  ask  him  to." 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  swept  round  the  room  again.  "  He  really 
has  an  old  friend  who  is  going  to  sea,  and  he'll  bring  him  any 
thing  he  asks  him  to." 

"Hulm,  proceed  with  your  inquiries,"  said  the  officer. 

"  Did  you  or  did  you  not,"  said  Henry,  turning  to  me  again, 
"tell  me  that  one  day,  when  dining  at  your  Aunt's,  you  saw  a 
magic  portrait  of  a  boy  upon  the  wall,  that  came  and  went,  and 
came  and  went,  like  a  shadow  or  a  ghost  ?  " 

As  Henry  asked  this  question  he  stood  between  tAVO  windows, 
while  the  lower  portion  of  his  person  was  hidden  by  a  table  be 
hind  which  he  had  retired.  His  face  was  lighted  by  a  half-smile, 
and  I  saw  him  literally  in  a  frame,  as  I  had  first  seen  the  pict 
ure  to  which  he  alluded.  In  a  moment  I  became  oblivious  to 
everything  around  me  except  Henry's  face.  The  portrait  was 
there  again  before  my  eyes.  Every  lineament  and  even  the 
peculiar  pose  of  the  head  were  recalled  to  me.  I  was  so  much 
excited  that  it  really  seemed  as  if  I  were  looking  again  upon  the 
picture  I  had  seen  in  Mrs.  Sanderson's  dining-room.  Henry  was 
disconcerted,  and  even  distressed  by  my  intent  look.  He  was 
evidently  afraid  that  the  matter  had  been  carried  too  far,  and 
that  L  was  growing  wild  with  the  strange  excitement.  Endeavor 
ing  to  recall  me  to  myself,  he  said  in  a  tone  of  friendliness  : 


92  Artlnir  Bonnicastlc. 

"Did  you  or  did  you  not  tell  me  the  story  about  the  portrait, 
Arthur  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  responded,  "  and  it  looked  just  like  you.  Oh  !  it 
did,  it  did,  it  did  !  There — turn  your  head  a  little  more  that 
way — so  !  It  was  a  perfect  picture  of  you,  Henry.  You  never 
could  imagine  such  a  likeness." 

"  You  are  a  little  blower,  you  are,"  volunteered  Jack  Linton, 
from  a  corner, 

"  Order  !  Order  !  Order  !"  swept  around  the  room. 

"  Did  said  portrait,"  broke  in  the  voice  of  the  officer,  "come 
and  go  on  said  wall,  like  said  shadow  or  said  ghost  ?  " 

"  It  went  but  it  didn't  come,"  I  replied,  with  my  eyes  still 
fixed  on  Henry. 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  ! "  resumed  fihe  chorus.  "  It  went  but  it 
didn't  come  !" 

"  Please  stand  still,  Henry  !  don't  stir  !  "  I  said.  "  I  want 
to  go  nearer  to  it.  She  wouldn't  let  me." 

I  crept  slowly  toward  him,  my  arms  still  folded.  He  grew 
pale,  and  all  the  room  became  still.  The  presiding  officer  and 
the  members  of  The  High  Society  of  Inquiry  were  getting 
scared.  "It  went  but  it  didn't  come,"  I  said.  "This  one 
comes  but  it  doesn't  go.  I  should  like  to  kiss  it." 

I  put  out  my  hands  towards  Henry,  and  he  sank  down  be 
hind  the  table  as  if  a  ghost  were  about  to  touch  him.  The 
illusion  was  broken,  and  I  started  as  if  awakened  suddenly 
from  a  dream.  Looking  around  upon  the  boys,  and  realizing 
what  had  been  done  and  what  was  in  progress,  I  went  into  a 
fit  of  hearty  crying,  that  distressed  them  quite  as  much  as  my 
previous  mood  had  done.  Nods  and  winks  passed  from  one 
to  another,  and  Hulm  was  told  that  no  further  testimony  was 
needed.  They  were  evidently  in  a  hurry  to  conclude  the  case, 
and  felt  themselves  cut  short  in  their  forms  of  proceeding.  At 
this  moment  a  strange  silence  seized  the  assembly.  All  eyes 
were  directed  toward  the  door,  upon  which  my  back  was 
turned.  I  wheeled  around  to  find  the  cause  of  the  interrup 
tion.  There,  in  the  doorway,  towering  above  us  all,  and  look- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  93 

ing  questioningly  down  upon  the  little  assembly,  stood  Mr. 
Bird. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  inquired  the  master. 

I  flew  to  his  side  and  took  his  hand.  The  officer  who  had 
presided,  being  the  largest  boy,  explained  that  they  had  been 
trying  to  break  Arthur  Bonnicastle  of  lying,  and  that  they  were 
about  to  order  him  to  report  to  the  master  for  confession  and 
correction. 

Then  Mr.  Bird  took  a  chair  and  patiently  heard  the  whole 
story. 

Without  a  reproach,  further  than  saying  that  he  thought  me 
much  too  young  for  experiments  of  the  kind  they  had  insti 
tuted  in  the  case,  he  explained  to  them  and  to  me  the  nature 
of  my  misdemeanors. 

"  The  boy  has  a  great  deal  of  imagination,"  he  said,  "  and  a 
strong  love  of  approbation.  Somebody  has  flattered  his  power 
of  invention,  probably,  and,  to  secure  admiration,  he  has  exer 
cised  it  until  he  has  acquired  the  habit  of  exaggeration.  I 
doubt  whether  the  lad  has  done  much  that  was  consciously 
wrong.  It  is  more  a  fault  of  constitution  and  character  than  a 
sin  of  the  will ;  and  now  that  he  sees  that  he  does  not  win 
admiration  by  telling  that  which  is  not  true,  he  will  become 
truthful.  I  am  glad  if  he  has  learned,  even  by  the  severe 
means  which  have  been  used,  that  if  he  wishes  to  be  loved  and 
admired  he  must  always  tell  the  exact  truth,  neither  more  nor 
less.  If  you  had  come  to  me,  I  could  have  told  you  all  about 
the  lad,  and  instituted  a  better  mode  of  dealing  with  him.  He 
has  been  through  some  sudden  changes  of  late  that  have  had 
the  natural  tendency  to  exaggerate  his  fault.  But  I  venture  to 
say  that  he  is  cured.  Are  n't  you,  Arthur?"  And  he  stooped 
and  lifted  me  to  his  face  and  looked  into  my  eyes. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  do  it  any  more,"  I  said. 

Bidding  the  boys  disperse,  he  carried  me  down  stairs  into  his 
own  room,  and  charged  me  with  kindly  counsel.  I  went  out 
from  the  interview  humbled  and  without  a  revengeful  thought 

O  O 

in  my  heart  toward  the  boys  who  had  brought  me  to  my  trial. 


94  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

I  saw  that  they  were  my  friends,  and  I  was  determined  to  prove 
myself  worthy  of  their  friendship. 

Jack  Linton  was  waiting  for  me  on  the  piazza,  and  wished  to 
explain  to  me  that  he  hadn't  anything  against  me.  "  I  went  in 
with  the  rest  of  'em  because  they  wanted  me  to,"  said  Jack, 
"  and  because  I  wanted  to  see  what  it  would  be  like  ;  but 
really,  now,  I  don't  object  so  much  to  blowing  myself.  There's 
a  sort  tit  sameness,  you  know,  about  always  telling  the  truth 
that  there  isn't  about  blowing,  but  it's  the  same  thing  with  hash 
and  bread  and  butter,  and  it  seems  to  be  necessary." 

I  told  him  that  I  wasn't  going  to  blow  any  more,  and 
that  I  had  arranged  it  all  with  Mr.  Bird.  He  shook  hands  with 
me  and  then  stooped  down  and  whispered  :  "You  don't  catch 
me  trying  any  High  old  Society  of  Inquiries  on  a  chap  of  your 
size  again." 

As  soon  as  I  settled  into  the  routine  of  my  school  life  the 
weeks  flew  away  so  fast  that  they  soon  got  beyond  my  count 
ing.  The  term  was  long,  but  I  was  happy  in  my  study,  happy 
in  my  companionships,  and  happy  in  the  love  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bird,  and  in  their  control  and  direction.  I  wrote  letters  home 
every  week,  and  received  prompt  replies  from  my  father.  The 
monthly  missives  to  "  My  dear  Aunt,"  were  regularly  written, 
though  1  won  no  replies  to  them.  I  learned,  however,  that 
Mr.  Bird  had  received  communications  from  her  concerning 
myself.  On  one  occasion  she  sent  her  love  to  me  through 
him,  and  he  delivered  the  message  with  an  amused  look  in  his 
eyes  that  puzzled  me. 

The  summer  months  passed  away,  and  that  great,  mysterious 
change  came  on  which  reported  the  consummation  of  growth 
and  maturity  in  the  processes  and  products  of  the  year.  The 
plants  that  had  toiled  all  summer,  evolving  flower  and  fruit, 
were  soothed  to  sleep.  The  birds  stopped  singing  lest  they 
should  waken  them.  The  locusts  by  day  and  the  crickets  by 
night  crooned  their  lullaby.  A  dreamy  haze  hung  around  the 
distant  hills,  and  here  and  there  a  woodbine  lighted  its  torch 
in  the  darkening  dingle,  and  the  maples  in  mellow  fire  signalled 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  95 

each  other  from  hill  to  hill.  The  year  had  begun  to  die. 
There  were  chills  at  night  and  fevers  by  day,  and  stretches  of 
weird  silence  that  impressed  me  more  profoundly  than  I  can 
possibly  reveal.  It  was  as  if  the  angels  of  the  summer  had  fled 
at  the  first  frost,  and  the  angels  of  the  autumn  had  come  down, 
bringing  with  them  a  new  set  of  spiritual  influences  that  sad 
dened  while  they  sweetened  every  soul  whose  sensibilities  were 
delicate  enough  to  apprehend  and  receive  them. 

During  those  days  I  felt  my  first  twinges  of  genuine  home 
sickness.  I  was  conscious  that  1  had  grown  in  body  and  mind 
during  my  brief  absence  ;  and  I  wanted  to  show  myself  to  the 
dear  ones  with  whom  I  had  passed  my  childhood.  I  imagined 
the  interest  with  which  they  would  listen  to  the  stories  of  my 
life  at  school ;  and  I  had  learned  enough  of  the  world  already  to 
know  that  there  was  no  love  so  sweet  and  strong  as  that  which 
my  home  held  for  me.  I  had  been  made  glad  by  my  father's 
accounts  of  his  modest  prosperity.  Work  had  been  plenty  and 
the  pay  was  sure  and  sufficient.  The  family  had  been  reclothed, 
and  new  and  needed  articles  of  furniture  had  been  purchased. 

I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Sanderson  and  asked  the  privilege  of  going 
home  to  spend  my  vacation,  and  through  my  father's  letters  I 
learned  that  she  would  send  for  me.  A  week  or  more  before 
the  close  of  the  term  I  received  a  note  addressed  to  me  in  a 
hand-writing  gone  to  wreck  through  disuse,  from  old  Jenks.  If 
I  were  to  characterize  the  orthography  in  which  it  was  clothed, 
I  should  say  it  was  eminently  strong.  I  do  not  suppose  it  was 
intended  to  be  blank  verse,  but  it  was  arranged  in  discon 
nected  lines,  and  read  thus  : 

"  Bring  home  your  Attlus. 

"  I  stere  boldly  for  the  Troppicks. 

"  Desk  and  cumpusses  in  the  stable. 

"  When  this  you  see  burn  this  when  this  you  see. 

"  The  sea  rolls  away  and  thare  is  no  old  wooman  thare. 

"  Where  the  spisy  breazes  blow. 

"  I  shall  come  for  you  with  the  Shaze. 

"  From  an  old  Tarr 

"  THEOPHILUS  JENKS.W 


96  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

This  unique  document  was  not  committed  to  the  flames, 
according  to  the  directions  of  the  writer.  It  was  much  too 
precious  for  such  a  destiny,  and  was  carefully  laid  away  between 
the  leaves  of  my  Testament,  to  be  revealed  in  this  later  time. 

The  last  evening  of  the  term  was  devoted  to  a  reception. 
Many  parents  of  the  boys  who  had  come  to  take  their  darlings 
home  were  present  ;  and  sitting  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the 
dancing-room,  shrunken  into  the  smallest  space  it  was  possible 
for  him  to  occupy,  was  old  Jenks,  gazing  enchanted  upon  such 
a  scene  as  had  never  feasted  his  little  gray  eyes  before.  I  had 
learned  to  dance,  in  a  boy's  rollicking  fashion,  and  during  the 
whole  evening  tried  to  show  off  my  accomplishments  to  my  old 
friend.  One  after  another  I  led  ladies — middle-aged  and  young 
— to  the  floor,  and  discharged  the  courtesies  of  the  time  with 
all  the  confidence  of  a  man  of  society.  Occasionally  I  went  to 
his  side  and  asked  him  how  he  liked  it. 

"It's  great — it's  tremenduous,"  said  Jenks.  "  How  do  you 
dare  to  do  it — eh  ?  say  !  "  said  he,  drawing  me  down  to  him  by  the 
lappel  of  my  coat :  "  I've  been  thinking  how  I'd  like  to  have 
the  old  woman  on  the  floor,  and  see  her  tumble  down  once.  I 
ain't  no  dancer,  you  know,  but  I'd  dance  a  regular  break-down 
over  her  before  I  picked  her  up  and  set  her  on  her  pins  again. 
Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  see  her  get  up  mad,  and  limp  off  into  a 
corner?" 

I  laughed  at  Jenks's  fancy,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of 
the  last  lady  I  danced  with. 

"  She's  a  beauty,"  said  Jenks.  "  I  should  like  to  sail  with 
her — just  sit  and  hold  her  hand  and  sail — sail  away,  and  keep 
sailing  and  sailing  and  sailing." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  her,"  I  said,  "for  that  is  my  lady-love. 
That's  Miss  Butler." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Jenks.  "Well,  you  don't 
mind  what  I  say,  do  you  ?  " 

"Oh  no,"  I  said,  "you're  too  old  for  her." 

"Well,  yes,  perhaps  I  am,  but  isn't  she  just — isn't  she  rather 
— that  is,  isn't  she  a  bit  too  old  for  you  ?  " 


ArtJnir  Bonnicastle.  97 

"  I  shall  be  old  enough  for  her  by  and  by,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  don't  take  to  heart  anything  I  say,"  responded  Jenks. 
"  I  was  only  talking  about  sailing,  any  way.  My  mind  is  on  the 
sea  a  good  deal,  you  know.  Now  you  go  on  with  your  danc 
ing,  and  don't  mind  me." 

The  next  morning  there  were  all  sorts  of  vehicles  at  the 
door.  There  were  calls  and  farewells  and  kisses,  and  promises 
to  write,  and  hurrahs,  and  all  the  incidents  and  excitements  of 
breaking  up.  With  a  dozen  kisses  warm  upon  my  cheeks, 
from  teachers  and  friends,  I  mounted  the  chaise,  and  Jenks 
turned  the  old  horse  toward  home. 

I  suppose  the  world  would  not  be  greatly  interested  in  the 
conversation  between  the  old  servant  and  the  boy  who  that 
day  drove  from  Hillsborough  to  Bradford.  Jenks  had  been 
much  moved  by  the  scenes  of  the  previous  evening,  and  his  mind, 
separated  somewhat  from  the  sea,  out  toward  whose  billowy 
freedom  it  had  been  accustomed  to  wander,  turned  upon 
women. 

"I  think  a  woman  is  a  tremenduous  being,"  said  Jenks. 
"  When  she's  right,  she's  the  rightest  thing  that  floats.  When 
she's  wrong,  she's  the  biggest  nuisance  that  ploughs  the  sea, 
even  if  she's  little  and  don't  draw  two  feet  of  water.  Perhaps 
it  isn't  just  the  thing  to  say  to  a  boy  like  you,  but  you'll  never 
speak  of  it,  if  I  should  tell  you  a  little  something  ?  " 

"Oh,  never!"  I  assured  him. 

"  Well,  I  'spose  I  might  have  been  a  married  man ; "  and 
Jenks  avoided  my  eyes  by  pretending  to  discover  a  horse-shoe 
in  the  road. 

"  You  don't  say  so  ! "  I  exclaimed  in  undisguised  astonish 
ment,  for  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  such  a  man  as  Jenks 
could  marry. 

"  Yes,  I  waited  on  a  girl  once." 

"  Was  she  beautiful  ?  "  1  inquired. 

"Well,  I  should  say  fair  to  middling,"  responded  Jenks, 
pursing  his  lips  as  if  determined  to  render  a  candid  judgment. 
"Fair  to  middling,  barring  a  few  freckles." 


98  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  But  you  didn't  leave  her  for  the  freckles  ?  "  I  said. 

"No,  I  didn't  leave  her  for  the  freckles.  She  was  a  good 
girl,  and  I  waited  on  her.  It  don't  seem  possible  now,  that 
I  ever  ra'aly  waited  on  a  girl,  but  I  did." 

"And  why  didn't  you  marry  her?"  I  inquired  warmly. 

"  It  wasn't  her  fault,"  said  Jenks.     "  She  was  a  good  girl." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  marry  her?"  I  insisted. 

"  Well,  there  was  another  fellow  got  to  hanging  round, 
and — you  know  how  such  things  go.  I  was  busy,  and — didn't 
'tend  up  very  well,  I  s'pose — and — she  got  tired  waiting  for 
me — or  something — and  the  other  fellow  married  her,  but  I've 
never  blamed  her.  She's  been  sorry  enough,  I  guess." 

Jenks  gave  a  sigh  of  mingled  regret  and  pity,  and  the  subject 
was  dropped. 

The  lights  were  shining  cheerfully  in  the  windows  as  we 
drove  into  Bradford.  When  we  came  in  sight  of  my  father's 
house,  Jenks  exacted  a  pledge  from  me  that  all  the  confidences 
of  the  day  which  he  had  so  freely  reposed  in  me  should  never 
be  divulged.  Arriving  at  the  gate,  I  gave  a  wild  whoop, 
which  brought  all  the  family  to  the  door,  and  in  a  moment  I 
was  smothered  with  welcome. 

Ah !  what  an  evening  was  that !  What  sad,  sweet  tears 
drop  upon  my  paper  as  I  recall  it,  and  remember  that  every 
eye  that  sparkled  with  greeting  then  has  ceased  to  shine, 
that  every  hand  that  grasped  mine  is  turned  to  dust,  and  that 
all  those  loving  spirits  wait  somewhere  to  welcome  me  home 
from  the  school  where  I  have  been  kept  through  such  a  long, 
eventful  term. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

I  BECOME    A  MEMBER  OF  MRS.    SANDERSON'S    FAMILY  AND    HAVE 
A  WONDERFUL  VOYAGE  WITH  JENKS  UPON  THE  ATLAS. 

AT  an  early  hour  on  the  following  morning,  dressed  in  my 
best,  I  went  to  pay  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Sanderson  at  The 
Mansion.  As  I  walked  along  over  the  ground  stiffened  with 
the  autumn  frost,  wondering  how  "my  dear  Aunt"  would 
receive  me,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  lived  half  a  lifetime  since  my 
father  led  me  over  the  same  road,  on  my  first  visit  to  the  same 
lady.  I  felt  older  and  larger  and  more  independent.  As 
I  passed  Mr.  Bradford's  house,  I  looked  at  the  windows,  hoping 
to  see  the  little  girl  again,  and  feeling  that  in  my  holiday 
clothes  I  could  meet  her  eyes  unabashed.  But  she  did  not 
appear,  nor  did  I  get  a  sight  of  Mr.  Bradford. 

The  autumn  was  now  in  its  glory,  and,  as  I  reached  the 
summit  of  the  hill,  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  pause 
and  look  off  upon  the  meadows  and  the  distant  country. 
I  stood  under  a  maple,  full  of  the  tender  light  of  lemon-colored 
leaves,  while  my  feet  were  buried  among  their  fallen  fellows 
with  which  the  ground  was  carpeted.  The  sounds  of  the  town 
reached  my  ears  mellowed  into  music  by  the  distance,  the 
smoke  from  a  hundred  chimneys  rose  straight  into  the  sky,  the 
river  was  a  mirror  for  everything  upon  it,  around  it  and  above 
it,  and  all  the  earth  was  a  garden  of  gigantic  flowers.  For  that 
one  moment  my  life  was  full.  With  perfect  health  in  my 
veins,  and  all  my  sensibilities  excited  by  the  beauty  before  me, 
my  joy  was  greater  in  living  than  any  words  can  express. 
Nothing  but  running,  or  shouting,  or  singing,  or  in  some  way 
violently  spending  the  life  thus  swelled  to  its  flood,  could  give 
it  fitting  utterance  ;  but,  as  I  was  near  The  Mansion,  all  these 
were  denied  me,  and  I  went  on,  feeling  that  passing  out  of  the 


ioo  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

morning  sunlight  into  a  house  would  be  like  going  into  a 
prison.  Before  reaching  the  door  I  looked  at  the  stable,  and 
saw  the  old  horse  with  his  head  out  of  one  window,  and  Jenks's 
face  occupying  another.  Jenks  and  the  horse  looked  at  one 
another  and  nodded,  as  much  as  to  say  :  "  That  is  the  little 
fellow  we  brought  over  from  Hillsborough  yesterday." 

That  Mrs.  Sanderson  saw  me  under  the  tree,  and  watched 
every  step  of  my  progress  to  the  house,  was  evident,  for  when 
I  mounted  the  steps,  and  paused  between  the  sleeping  lions, 
the  door  swung  upon  its  hinges,  and  there  stood  the  little  old 
woman  in  the  neatest  of  morning  toilets.  She  had  expected 
me,  and  had  prepared  to  receive  me. 

"And  how  is  Master  Bonnicastle  this  pleasant  morning?" 
she  said  as  I  entered. 

I  was  prepared  to  be  led  into  any  manifestation  of  respect 
or  affection  which  her  greeting  might  suggest,  and  this  cheery 
and  flattering  address  moved  me  to  grasp  both  her  hands, 
and  tell  her  that  I  was  very  well  and  very  happy.  It  did  not 
move  me  to  kiss  her,  or  to  expect  a  kiss  from  her.  I  had 
never  been  called  "Master"  Bonnicastle  before,  and  the  new 
title  seemed  as  if  it  were  intended  so  to  elevate  me  as  to  place 
me  at  a  distance. 

Retaining  one  of  my  hands,  she  conducted  me  to  a  large 
drawing-room,  into  which  she  had  admitted  the  full  glow  of  the 
morning  light,  and,  seating  me,  drew  a  chair  near  to  me  for  her 
self,  where  she  could  look  me  squarely  in  the  face.  Then  she 
led  me  into  a  talk  about  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird,  and  my  life  at 
school.  She  played  the  part  of  a  listener  well,  and  flattered 
me  by  her  little  comments,  and  her  almost  deferential  attention. 
I  do  her  the  justice  to  believe  that  she  was  not  altogether  play 
ing  a  part,  thoroughly  pre-considcred,  for  I  think  she  was  really 
interested  and  amused.  My  presence,  and  my  report  of  what 
was  going  on  in  one  little  part  of  the  great  world  which  was  so 
far  removed  from  the  pursuits  of  her  lonely  life,  were  refreshing 
influences.  Seeing  that  she  was  really  interested,  my  tongue 
ran  on  without  restraint,  until  I  had  told  all  I  had  to  tell. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  101 

Many  times,  when  I  found  myself  tempted  to  exaggerate,  I 
checked  my  vagrant  speech  with  corrections  and  qualifications, 
determined  that  my  old  fault  should  have  no  further  sway. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  great  kindness, 
"  I  find  you  much  improved.  Now  let  us  go  up-stairs  and  see 
what  we  can  discover  there." 

I  followed  her  up  the  dark  old  stairway  into  a  chamber 
whose  windows  commanded  a  view  of  the  morning  sun  and  the 
town. 

"  How  lovely  this  is ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"You  like  it,  then?"  she  responded  with  a  gratified  look. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  J  think  it  is  the  prettiest  room  I  ever  saw." 

"Well,  Master  Bonnicastle,  this  is  your  room.  This  new 
paper  on  the  walls  and  all  this  new  furniture  I  bought  for  you. 
Whenever  you  want  a  change  from  your  house,  which  you 
know  is  rather  small  and  not  exactly  the  thing  for  a  young 
gentleman  like  you,  you  will  find  this  room  ready  for  you. 
There  are  the  drawers  for  your  linen,  and  there  is  the  closet 
for  your  other  clothes,  and  here  is  your  mirror,  and  this  is  a 
pin-cushion  which  I  have  made  for  you  with  my  own  hands." 

She  said  this,  walking  from  one  object  named  to  another, 
until  she  had  shown  me  all  the  appointments  of  the  chamber. 

I  was  speechless  and  tearful  with  delight.  And  this  was  all 
mine  !  And  I  was  a  young  gentleman,  with  the  prettiest  room 
in  the  grandest  house  of  Bradford  at  my  command  !  It  was 
like  a  dream  to  me,  bred  as  I  had  been  in  the  strait  sim 
plicity  of  poverty.  Young  as  I  was,  I  had  longed  for  just  this 
— for  something  around  me  in  my  real  life  that  should  corre 
spond  with  my  dreams  of  life.  Already  the  homely  furniture  of 
my  father's  house,  and  the  life  with  which  it  was  associated, 
seemed  mean — almost  wretched  ;  and  I  was  distressed  by  my 
sympathy  for  those  whom  I  should  leave  behind  in  rising  to 
my  new  estate.  By  some  strange  intuition  I  knew  that  it  would 
not  do  to  speak  to  my  benefactress  of  my  love  for  my  father. 
I  was  full  of  the  thought  that  my  love  had  been  purchased, 
and  fairly  paid  for.  I  belonged  to  Mrs.  Sanderson.  She  who 


IO2  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

had  expended  so  much  money  for  me,  without  any  reward,  had 
a  right  to  me,  and  all  of  my  society  and  time  that  she  desired. 
If  she  had  asked  me  to  come  to  her  house  and  make  it  my 
only  home,  I  should  have  promised  to  do  so  without  reserve, 
but  she  did  not  do  this.  She  was  too  wise.  She  did  not  in 
tend  to  exact  anything  from  me ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  that  she 
took  the  keenest  delight  in  witnessing  the  operation  and  con 
summation  of  her  plans  for  gaining  an  ascendency  over  my 
affections,  my  will,  and  my  life. 

Her  revelations  produced  in  me  a  strange  disposition  to 
silence  which  neither  she  nor  I  knew  how  to  break.  I  was 
troubled  with  the  fear  that  I  had  not  expressed  sufficient  grati 
tude  for  her  kindness,  yet  I  did  not  know  how  to  say  more. 
At  length  she  said  :  "  I  saw  you  under  the  maple  :  what  were 
you  thinking  about  there  ?  " 

"  1  was  wondering  if  the  world  was  not  made  in  the  fall,"  I 
replied. 

"  Ah  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  continued,  "  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  God  must  have 
stood  under  that  same  maple-tree,  when  the  leaves  were  chang 
ing,  and  saw  that  it  was  all  very  good." 

With  something  of  her  old  asperity  she  said  she  wished  my 
boyish  fancies  would  change  as  well  as  the  leaves. 

"  I  cannot  help  having  them,"  I  replied,  "  but  if  you  don't 
like  them  I  shall  never  speak  of  them  again." 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what  I  think,"  said  she,  assuming  her  pleas 
ant  tone  again.  "  I  think  you  would  like  to  be  left  alone  for  a 
little  while." 

"  Oh  !  I  should  like  to  be  alone  here  in  my  own  room  ever 
so  much  !  "  I  responded. 

"  You  can  stay  here  until  dinner  if  you  wish,"  she  said,  and 
then  she  bent  down  and  kissed  my  forehead,  and  retired. 

I  listened  as  she  descended  the  stairs,  and  when  I  felt  that 
she  was  far  enough  away,  I  rose,  and  carefully  locked  my  door. 
Then  I  went  to  the  mirror  to  see  whether  I  knew  myself,  and 
to  find  what  there  was  in  me  that  could  be  addressed  as  "Mas- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  103 

ter,"  or  spoken  of  as  "a  young  gentleman."  Then  I  ransacked 
the  closet,  and  climbed  to  a  high  shelf  in  it,  with  the  vague  hope 
that  the  portrait  which  had  once  excited  my  curiosity  was  hid 
den  there.  Finding  nothing  I  had  not  previously  seen,  I  went 
to  the  window,  and  sat  down  to  think. 

I  looked  off  upon  the  town,  and  felt  myself  lifted  immeasura 
bly  above  it  and  all  its  plodding  cares  and  industries.  This  was 
mine.  It  had  been  won  without  an  effort.  It  had  come  to  me 
without  a  thought  or  a  care.  I  believed  there  was  not  a  boy  in 
the  whole  town  who  possessed  its  equal,  and  I  wondered  what 
there  was  in  me  that  should  call  forth  such  munificence  from 
my  benefactress.  If  my  good  fortune  as  a  boy  were  so  great, 
what  brilliant  future  awaited  my  manhood  ?  Then  I  thought  of 
my  father,  working  humbly  and  patiently,  day  after  day,  for  bread 
for  his  family,  and  of  the  tender  love  which  I  knew  his  heart  held 
for  me  ;  and  I  wondered  why  God  should  lay  so  heavy  a  burden 
upon  him  and  so  marvelously  favor  me.  Would  it  not  be  mean 
to  take  this  good  fortune  and  sell  my  love  of  him  and  of  home 
for  it  ?  Oh !  if  I  could  only  bring  them  all  here,  to  share  my 
sweeter  lot,  I  should  be  content,  but  I  could  not  even  speak  of 
this  to  the  woman  who  had  bestowed  it  on  me. 

It  all  ended  in  a  sweet  and  hearty  fit  of  crying,  in  which  I 
sobbed  until  the  light  faded  out  of  my  eyes,  and  I  went  to 
sleep.  I  had  probably  slept  two  hours  when  a  loud  knock 
awakened  me,  and,  staggering  to  my  feet,  and  recognizing  at 
last  the  new  objects  around  me,  I  went  to  the  door,  and  found 
Jenks,  in  his  white  apron,  who  told  me  that  dinner  was  waiting 
for  me.  I  gave  a  hurried  glance  at  the  mirror  and  was  startled 
to  find  my  eyes  still  red  ;  but  I  could  not  wait.  As  he  made 
way  for  me  to  pass  down  before  him,  he  whispered  :  "  Come 
to  the  stable  as  soon  as  you  can  after  dinner.  The  atlas  and 
compasses  are  ready." 

I  remembered  then  that  he  had  borrowed  the  former  of  me 
on  the  way  home,  and  secreted  it  under  the  seat  of  the  chaise. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  was  already  seated  when  I  entered  the 
dining-room. 


IO4  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Your  eyes  are  red,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  I  have  been  asleep,  I  think,"  I  responded. 

Jenks  mumbled  something,  and  commenced  growling.  His 
mistress  regarded  me  closely,  but  thought  best  not  to  push  in 
quiries  further. 

Conversation  did  not  promise  to  be  lively,  especially  in  the 
presence  of  a  third  party,  between  whom  and  myself  there 
existed  a  guilty  secret  which  threatened  to  sap  the  peace  of  the 
establishment. 

At  length  I  said :  "  Oh  !  I  did  not  think  to  tell  you  anything 
about  my  chum." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  His  name  is  Henry  Hulm,"  I  replied  ;  and  then  I  went  on 
at  length  to  describe  his  good  qualities  and  to  tell  what  ex 
cellent  friends  we  had  been.  "  He  is  not  a  bit  like  me,"  I 
said,  "  he  is  so  steady  and  quiet." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  his  people?"  inquired  the 
lady. 

"  No,  he  never  says  anything  about  them,  and  I  am  afraid 
he  is  poor,"  I  replied. 

"  How  does  he  dress  ?  " 

"Not  so  well  as  I  do,  but  he  is  the  neatest  and  carefullest 
boy  in  the  school." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  invite  him  here  to  spend  your 
vacation  with  you,  when  you  come  home  again,"  she  suggested. 

"  May  I  ?  Can  I  ?  "  I  eagerly  inquired. 

"  Certainly.  If  he  is  a  good,  respectable  boy,  and  you  would 
like  him  for  a  companion  here,  I  should  be  delighted  to  have 
you  bring  him." 

"  Oh  !  I  thank  you  :  I  am  so  glad !  I'm  sure  he'll  come,  and 
he  can  sleep  in  my  room  with  me." 

"  That  will  please  you  very  much,  will  it  not  ?  "  and  the  lady 
smiled  with  a  lively  look  of  gratification. 

I  look  back  now  with  mingled  pity  of  my  simple  self  and 
admiration  of  the  old  lady  who  thus  artfully  wove  her  toils 
about  me.  She  knew  she  must  not  alarm  my  father,  or  im- 


Arthur  Bonnicastlc.  105 

prison  me,  or  fail  to  make  me  happy  in  the  gilded  trap  she  had 
set  for  me.  All  her  work  upon  me  was  that  of  a  thorough 
artist.  What  she  wanted  was  to  sever  me  and  my  sympathy 
from  my  father  and  his  home,  and  to  make  herself  and  her 
house  the  center  of  my  life.  She  saw  that  my  time  would  pass 
slowly  if  I  had  no  companion ;  and  Henry's  coming  would  be 
likely  to  do  more  than  anything  to  hold  me.  My  pride  would 
certainly  move  me  to  bring  him  to  my  room,  and  she  would 
manage  the  rest. 

After  dinner,  I  asked  liberty  to  go  to  the  stable.  I  was  fond 
of  horses  and  all  domestic  animals.  I  made  my  request  in  the 
presence  of  Jenks,  and  that  whimsical  old  hypocrite  had  the 
hardihood  to  growl  and  grumble  and  mutter  as  if  he  regarded 
the  presence  of  a  boy  in  the  stable  as  a  most  offensive  intru 
sion  upon  his  special  domain.  I  could  not  comprehend  such 
duplicity,  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Don't  mind  Jenks,"  said  Madame  :  "he's  a  fool." 

Jenks  went  growling  out  of  the  room,  but,  as  he  passed  me, 
I  caught  the  old  cunning  look  in  his  little  eyes,  and  followed 
him.  When  the  door  was  closed  he  cut  a  pigeon-wing,  and 
ended  by  throwing  one  foot  entirely  over  my  head.  Then  he 
whispered:  "You  go  out  and  stay  there  until  I  come.  Don't 
disturb  anything."  So  I  went  out,  thinking  him  quite  the 
nimblest  and  queerest  old  fellow  I  had  ever  seen. 

I  passed  half  an  hour  patting  the  horse's  head,  calling  the 
chickens  around  me,  and  wondering  what  the  plans  of  Jenks 
would  be.  At  length  he  appeared.  Walking  tiptoe  into  the 
stable,  he  said:  "The  old  woman  is  down  for  a  nap,  and 
we've  got  two  good  hours  for  a  voyage.  Now,  messmate,  let's 
up  sails  and  be  off!" 

At  this  he  seized  a  long  rope  which  depended  from  one  of 
the  great  beams  above,  and  pulled  away  with  a  "  Yo  !  heave 
oh !  "  sotto  voce,  (letting  it  slide  through  his  hands  at  every  call), 
as  if  an  immense  spread  of  canvas  was  to  be  the  result. 

"  Belay  there  1 "  he  said  at  last,  in  token  that  his  ship  was 
under  way,  and  the  voyage  begun. 
6* 


io6  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  It's  a  bit  cold,  my  hearty,  and  now  for  a  turn  on  the 
quarter-deck,"  he  said,  as  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  walked 
with  me  back  and  forth  across  the  floor.  I  was  seized  with  an 
uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  but  walked  with  him,  nothing 
loth.  "  Now  we  plough  the  billow,"  said  Jenks.  "  This  is  what 
I  call  gay." 

After  giving  our  blood  a  jog,  and  getting  into  a  glow,  he  be 
gan  to  laugh. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  She  made  me  promise  that  I  wouldn't  tease  or  trouble  you, 
she  did!"  and  then  he  laughed  again.  "Oh  yes;  Jenks  is  a 
fool,  he  is  !  Jenks  is  a  tremenduous  fool ! "  Then  he  suddenly 
sobered,  and  suggested  that  it  was  time  to  examine  our  chart. 
Dropping  my  hand,  he  went  to  a  bin  of  oats,  built  like  a  desk, 
and  opening  from  the  top  with  a  falling  lid.  To  this  lid  he  had 
attached  two  legs  by  hinges  of  leather,  which  supported  it  at  a 
convenient  angle.  Then  he  brought  forth  two  three-legged 
milking-stools  and  placed  them  before  it,  and  plunging  his 
hand  deep  down  into  the  oats  drew  out  my  atlas,  neatly 
wrapped  in  an  old  newspaper.  This  he  opened  before  me,  and 
we  took  our  seats. 

"  Now  where  are  we  ?  "  said  Jenks. 

I  opened  to  the  map  of  the  world,  and  said:  "  Here  is  New 
York,  and  there  is  Boston.  We  can't  be  very  far  from  either 
of  'em,  but  I  think  we  are  between  'em." 

"Very  well,  let  it  be  between  'em,"  said  Jenks.  "Now 
what?" 

"  Where  will  you  go  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  don't  care  where  I  go ;  let  us  have  a  big  sail,  now  that 
we  are  in  for  it,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  then,  let's  go  to  Great  Britain,"  I  said. 

"  Isn't  there  something  that  they  call  the  English  Channel  ?  " 
inquired  Jenks  with  a  doubtful  look. 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  and  cruising  about  among  the  fine  type,  I 
found  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  like  this  idea  of  being  out  of  sight  of  land. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  107 

It's  dangerous,  and  if  you  can't  sleep,  there  is  no  place  to  go 
to.  Let's  steer  straight  for  the  English  Channel — straight  as  a 
ramrod." 

"But  it  will  take  a  month,"  I  said;  "I  have  heard  people 
say  so  a  great  many  times." 

"  My !  A  month  ?  Out  of  sight  of  land  ?  No  old  woman 
and  no  curry-comb  for  a  month  ?  Hey  de  diddle  !  Very  well, 
let  it  be  a  month.  Hullo  !  it's  all  over  !  Here  we  are  :  now 
where  are  we  on  the  map  ?  " 

"  We  seem  to  be  pretty  near  to  Paris,"  I  said,  "  but  we  don't 
quite  touch  it.  There  must  be  some  little  places  along  here 
that  are  not  put  down.  There's  London,  too :  that  doesn't 
seem  to  be  a  great  way  off,  but  there's  a  strip  of  land  between 
it  and  the  water." 

"  Why,  yes,  there's  Paris,"  said  Jenks,  looking  out  of  the 
stable  window,  and  down  upon  the  town.  "  Don't  you  see  ? 
It's  a  fine  city.  I  think  I  see  just  where  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
lives.  But  it's  a  wicked  place ;  let's  get  away  from  it.  Bear 
off  now ; "  and  so  our  imaginary  bark,  to  use  Jenks' s  large 
phrase,  "  swept  up  the  channel." 

Here  I  suggested  that  we  had  better  take  a  map  of  Great 
Britain,  and  we  should  probably  find  more  places  to  stop  at. 
I  found  it  easily,  with  the  "English  Channel"  in  large  letters. 

"  Here  we  are  !  "  I  said  :  "  see  the  towns  !  " 

"My!  Ain't  they  thick!"  responded  Jenks.  "What  is 
that  name  running  lengthwise  there  right  through  the  water  ?  " 

"That's  the  'Strait  of   Dover,'"    I  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  look  out !  We're  running  right  into  it ! 
It's  a  confounded  narrow  place,  any  way.  Bear  away  there  ; 
take  the  middle  course.  I've  heard  of  them  Straits  of  Dover 
before.  They  are  dangerous ;  but  we're  through,  we're  through. 
Now  where  are  we  ?  " 

"  We  are  right  at  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,"  I  replied,  "  and 
here  is  a  river  that  leads  straight  up  to  London." 

"  Cruise  off !  cruise  off ! "  said  Jenks.  "  We're  in  an  enemy's 
country.  Sure  enough,  there's  London  ;  "  and  he  looked  out 


io8  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

of  the  window  with  a  fixed  gaze,  as  if  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's 
were  as  plainly  in  sight  as  his  own  nose.  After  satisfying  him 
self  with  a  survey  of  the  great  city,  he  remarked,  interroga 
tively,  "  Haven't  we  had  about  enough  of  this  ?  I  want  to 
go  where  the  spicy  breezes  blow.  Now  that  we  have  got  our 
sea-legs  on,  let  us  make  for  the  equator.  Bring  the  ship 
round  ;  here  we  go  ;  now  what  ?  " 

"  We  have  got  to  cross  the  Tropic  of  Cancer,  for  all  that  I 
can  see,"  said  I. 

"  Can't  we  possibly  dodge  it  ?  "  inquired  Jenks  with  concern. 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can,"  I  replied.  "  It  seems  to  go  clean 
around." 

"  What  is  it,  any  way  ?  "  said  he. 

"It  don't  seem  to  be  anything  but  a  sort  of  dotted  line,"  I 
answered. 

"  Oh  well,  never  mind ;  we'll  get  along  with  that,"  he  said 
encouragingly.  "Steer  between  two  dots,  and  hold  your 
breath.  My  uncle  David  had  one  of  them  things." 

Here  Jenks  covered  his  mouth  and  nose  with  entire  gravity, 
and  held  them  until  the  imaginary  danger  was  past.  At  last, 
with  a  red  face,  he  inquired,  "  Are  we  over  ?  " 

"  All  over,"  I  replied  ;  "  and  now  where  do  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

"Isn't  there  something  that  they  call  the  Channel  of  Mo 
zambique  ?  "  said  Jenks. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  I've  always  thought  it  must  be  a  splendid  sheet  of 
water !  Yes  :  Channel  of  Mozambique — splendid  sheet  of 
water  !  Mozambique  !  Grand  name,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Why,  here  it  is,"  said  I,  "  away  round  here.  We've  got  to 
run  down  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  around  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  up  into  the  Indian  Ocean.  Shall  we  touch  any 
where  ?  "  '* 

"  No,  I  reckon  it  isn't  best.  The  niggers  will  think  we  are 
after  'em,  and  we  may  get  into  trouble.  But  look  here,  boy  ! 
We've  forgot  the  compasses.  How  we  ever  managed  to  get 
across  the  Atlantic  without  'em  is  more  than  I  know.  That's 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  109 

one  of  the  carelessest  things  I  ever  did.  I  don't  suppose  we 
could  do  it  again  in  trying  a  thousand  times." 

Thereupon  he  drew  from  a  corner  of  the  oat-bin  an  old  pair 
of  carpenter's  compasses,  between  which  and  the  mariner's 
compass  neither  he  nor  I  knew  the  difference,  and  said  :  "  Now 
let  us  sail  by  compasses,  in  the  regular  way." 

"  How  do  you  do  it  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  There  can't  be  but  one  way,  as  I  see,"  he  replied.  "You 
put  one  leg  down  on  the  map,  where  you  are,  then  put  the 
other  down  where  you  want  to  go,  and  just  sail  for  that  leg." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  here  we  are,  close  to  the  Canary  Islands. 
Put  one  leg  down  there,  and  the  other  down  here  at  St. 
Helena." 

After  considerable  questioning  and  fumbling  and  adjusting  of 
the  compasses,  they  were  held  in  their  place  by  the  ingenious 
navigator,  while  we  drove  for  the  lonely  island.  After  a  con 
siderable  period  of  silence,  Jenks  broke  out  with :  "  Doesn't 
she  cut  the  water  beautiful  ?  It  takes  the  Jane  Whittlesey  ! " 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed,  "I  didn't  know  you  had  a  name  for 
her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jenks  with  a  sigh — still  holding  fast  to  the  com 
passes,  as  if  our  lives  depended  upon  his  faithfulness — "  Jane 
Whittlesey  has  been  the  name  of  every  vessel  I  ever  owned. 
You  know  what  I  told  you  about  that  young  woman  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said  ;  "  and  was  that  her  name  ?  " 

Jenks  nodded,  and  sighed  again,  still  keeping  his  eye  upon 
the  outermost  leg  of  the  instrument,  and  holding  it  firmly  in  its 
place. 

"  Here  we  are,"  he  exclaimed  at  last.  "  Now  let's  double 
over  and  start  again." 

So  the  northern  leg  came  around  with  a  half  circle,  and  went 
down  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  The  Tropic  of  Capricorn 
proved  less  dangerous  than  the  northern  corresponding  line,  and 
so,  at  last,  sweeping  around  the  cape,  we  brought  that  leg  of 
the  compasses  which  we  had  left  behind  toward  the  equator 
again,  and,  working  up  on  the  map,  arrived  at  our  destination. 


no  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"Well,  here  we  are  in  the  Channel  of  Mozambique,"  I  said. 

"  What's  that  blue  place  there  on  the  right  hand  side  of  it?" 
he  inquired. 

"That's  the  Island  of  Madagascar." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "Well!  I  never  ex 
pected  to  be  so  near  that  place.  The  Island  of  Madagascar ! 
The  Island  of  Mad-a-gas-car !  Let's  take  a  look  at  it." 

Thereupon  he  rose  and  took  a  long  look  out  of  the  win 
dow.  "  Elephants  —  mountains  —  tigers  —  monkeys  —  golden 
sands — cannibals,"  he  exclaimed  slowly,  as  he  apprehended 
seriatim  the  objects  he  named.  Then  he  elevated  his  nose,  and 
began  to  sniff  the  air,  as  if  some  far-off  odor  had  reached  him 
on  viewless  wings.  "  Spicy  breezes,  upon  my  word  !  "  he  ex 
claimed.  "  Don't  you  notice  'em,  boy  ?  Smell  uncommonly 
like  hay  ;  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

We  had  after  this  a  long  and  interesting  cruise,  running  into 
various  celebrated  ports,  and  gradually  working  toward  home. 
I  was  too  busy  with  the  navigation  to  join  Jenks  in  his  views  of 
the  countries  and  islands  which  we  passed  on  the  voyage,  but 
he  enjoyed  every  league  of  the  long  and  eventful  sail.  At  last 
the  Jane  Whittlesey  ran  straight  into  Mrs.  Sanderson's  home  in- 
closures,  and  Jenks  cast  anchor  by  dropping  a  huge  stone 
through  a  trap-door  in  the  floor. 

"  It  really  seems  good  to  be  at  home  again,  and  to  feel  every 
thing  standing  still,  doesn't  it?"  said  he.  "  I  wonder  if  I  can 
walk  straight,"  he  went  on,  and  then  proceeded  to  ascertain  by 
actual  experiment.  I  have  laughed  a  hundred  times  since  at 
the  recollection  of  the  old  fellow's  efforts  to  adapt  himself  to 
the  imaginary  billows  of  the  stable-floor. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  get  over  this  before  supper-time,"  said  Jenks, 
"  for  the  old  woman  will  know  we  have  been  to  sea." 

I  enjoyed  the  play  quite  as  well  as  my  companion  did,  but 
even  then  I  did  not  comprehend  that  it  was  simply  play,  with 
him.  I  supposed  it  was  a  trick  of  his  to  learn  something  of 
geography,  before  cutting  loose  from  service  and  striking  out 


Arthitr  Bonnicastle.  in 

into  the  great  world  by  way  of  the  ocean.  So  I  said  to  him  : 
"  What  do  you  do  this  for  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  do  it  for  ?  What  does  anybody  go  to  sea  for  ?  " 
he  inquired  with  astonishment. 

"  Well,  but  you  don't  go  to  the  real  sea,  you  know,"  I  sug 
gested. 

"  Don't  I !  That's  what  the  atlas  says,  any  way,  and  the  atlas 
ought  to  know,"  said  Jenks.  "  At  any  rate  it's  as  good  a  sea 
as  I  want  at  this  time  of  year,  just  before  winter  comes  on.  If 
you  only  think  so,  it's  a  great  deal  better  sailing  on  an  atlas 
than  it  is  sailing  on  the  water.  You  have  only  to  go  a  few 
inches,  and  you  needn't  get  wet,  and  you  can't  drown.  You 
can  see  everything  there  is  in  the  world  by  looking  out  of  the 
window,  and  thinking  you  do ;  and  what's  the  use  spending  so 
much  time  as  people  do  travelling  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ? 
The  only  thing  that  troubles  me  is  that  Bradford's  Irishman 
down  here  has  really  come  across  the  ocean,  and  I  don't  s'pose 
he  cared  any  more  about  it  than  if  he'd  been  a  pig.  If 
I  could  only  have  had  a  real  sail  on  the  ocean,  and  got 
through  with  it,  I  don't  know  but  I  should  be  ready  to  die." 

"But  you  will  have,  some  time,  you  know,"  I  said  encour 
agingly. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  When  you  run  away  you  will,"  I  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  responded  dubiously.  "I  think  per 
haps  I'd  better  run  away  on  an  atlas  a  few  times  first,  just  to 
learn  the  ropes." 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  the  tinkle  of  a  bell,  and  it  was 
marvelous  to  see  how  quickly  the  atlas  disappeared  in  the  oats 
and  the  lid  was  closed  over  it.  Jenks  went  to  the  house  and  I 
followed  him. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  did  not  inquire  how  I  had  spent  my  time. 
It  was  enough  for  her  that  I  had  in  no  way  disturbed  her  after- 
dinner  nap,  and  that  I  came  when  she  wanted  me.  I  told  her 
I  had  enjoyed  the  day  very  much,  and  that  I  hoped  my  father 
would  let  me  come  up  soon  and  occupy  my  room.  Then  I 


ii2  Arthur  Bonnicasile. 

went  tip-stairs  and  looked  the  room  all  over  again,  and  tried  to 
realize  the  extent  and  value  of  my  new  possession.  When  I 
went  home,  toward  night,  she  loaded  me  with  nice  little  gifts 
for  my  mother  and  the  children,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  my  haste 
to  tell  the  family  of  the  good  fortune  that  had  befallen  me.  My 
mother  was  greatly  delighted  with  my  representations,  but  my 
father  was  sad.  I  think  he  was  moved  to  sever  my  connection 
with  the  artful  woman  at  once,  and  take  the  risks  of  the  step, 
but  a  doubt  of  his  own  ability  to  do  for  me  what  it  was  her  in 
tention  and  power  to  do  withheld  him.  He  consented  at  last  to 
lose  me  because  he  loved  me,  and  on  the  following  day  I  went 
out  from  my  home  with  an  uneasy  conviction  that  I  had  been 
bought  and  paid  for,  and  was  little  better  than  an  expensive 
piece  of  property.  What  she  would  do  with  me  I  could  not 
tell.  I  had  my  doubts  and  my  dreams,  which  I  learned  to  keep 
to  myself;  but  in  the  swift  years  that  followed  there  was  never 
an  unkind  word  spoken  to  me  in  my  new  home,  or  any  unkind 
treatment  experienced  which  made  me  regret  the  step  I  had 
taken. 

I  learned  to  regard  Mrs.  Sanderson  as  the  wisest  woman  liv 
ing  ;  and  I  found,  as  the  time  rolled  by,  that  I  had  adopted  her 
judgments  upon  nearly  every  person  and  every  subject  that 
called  forth  her  opinion.  She  assumed  superiority  to  all  her 
neighbors.  She  sat  on  a  social  throne,  in  her  own  imagination. 

o  o 

There  were  few  who  openly  acknowledged  her  sway,  but  she 
was  imperturbable.  Wherever  she  appeared,  men  bowed  to 
her  with  profoundest  courtesy,  and  women  were  assiduous  in 
their  politeness.  They  may  have  flouted  her  when  she  was  out 
of  sight,  but  they  were  flattered  by  her  attentions,  and  were  al 
ways  careful  in  her  presence  to  yield  her  the  pre-eminence 
she  assumed.  No  man  or  woman  ever  came  voluntarily  into 
collision  with  her  will.  Keen,  quiet,  alert,  self-possessed,  she 
lived  her  own  independent  life,  asking  no  favors,  granting  few, 
and  holding  herself  apart  from,  and  above,  all  around  her.  The 
power  of  this  self-assertion,  insignificant  as  she  was  in  physique, 
was  simply  gigantic. 


ArtJnir  Bonnicastle.  113 

To  this  height  she  undertook  to  draw  me,  severing  one  by 
one  the  sympathies  which  bound  me  to  my  family  and  my  com 
panions,  and  making  me  a  part  of  herself.  I  remember  dis 
tinctly  the  processes  of  the  change,  and  their  result.  I  grew  more 
silent,  more  self-contained,  more  careful  of  my  associations. 
The  change  in  me  had  its  effect  in  my  own  home.  I  came  to  be 
regarded  there  as  a  sort  of  superior  being ;  and  when  I  went 
there  for  a  day  the  best  things  were  given  me  to  eat,  and  cer 
tain  proprieties  were  observed  by  the  family,  as  if  a  rare  stranger 
had  come  among  them.  In  the  early  part  of  my  residence  at 
The  Mansion,  some  of  the  irreverent  little  democrats  of  the 
street  called  me  "Mother  Sanderson's  Baby,"  but  even  this 
humiliating  and  maddening  taunt  died  away  when  it  was  whis 
pered  about  that  she  was  educating  her  heir,  and  that  I  should 
be  some  day  the  richest  young  man  in  the  town. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  LEAVE  THE  BIRD'S  NEST  AND  MAKE  A  GREAT  DISCOVERY. 

LIFE  is  remembered  rather  by  epochs  than  by  continuous  de 
tails.  I  spent  five  years  at  The  Bird's  Nest,  visiting  home  twice 
every  year,  and  becoming  more  and  more  accustomed  to  the 
thought  that  I  had  practically  ceased  to  be  a  member  of  my 
own  family.  My  home  and  all  my  belongings  were  at  the  Man 
sion  ;  and  although  I  kept  a  deep,  warm  spot  in  my  heart  for 
my  father,  which  never  grew  cold,  there  seemed  to  be  a  differ 
ence  in  kind  and  quality  between  me  and  my  brothers  and  sis 
ters  which  forbade  the  old  intimacy.  The  life  at  home  had 
grown  more  generous  with  my  father's  advancing  prosperity, 
and  my  sisters,  catching  the  spirit  of  the  prosperous  community 
around  them,  had  done  much  to  beautify  and  elevate  its  ap 
pointments. 

The  natural  tendency  of  the  treatment  I  received,  both  at 
my  father's  house  and  at  The  Mansion,  was  for  a  long  time  to 
concentrate  my  thoughts  upon  myself,  so  that  when,  on  my 
fifteenth  birthday,  I  entered  my  father's  door,  and  felt  pecu 
liarly  charmed  by  my  welcome  and  glad  in  the  happiness  which 
my  presence  gave,  I  made  a  discovery.  I  found  my  sister 
Claire  a  remarkably  pretty  young  woman.  She  was  two  years 
my  senior,  and  had  been  so  long  my  profoundest  worshipper 
that  I  had  never  dreamed  what  she  might  become.  She  was 
the  sweetest  of  blondes,  with  that  unerring  instinct  of  dress 
which  enabled  her  to  choose  always  the  right  color,  and  so  to 
drape  her  slender  and  graceful  figure  as  to  be  always  attractive. 
My  own  advance  toward  manhood  helped  me,  I  suppose,  to 
appreciate  her  as  I  had  not  hitherto  done  ;  and  before  1  parted 
with  her,  to  return  to  the  closing  term  of  Mr.  Bird's  tuition,  I 


Arthiir  Bonnicastle.  115 

had  become  proud  of  her,  and  ambitious  for  her  future.  I 
found,  too,  that  she  had  more  than  kept  pace  with  me  in  study. 
It  was  a  great  surprise.  By  what  ingenuities  she  had  managed 
to  win  her  accomplishments,  and  become  the  educated  lady  that 
she  was,  I  knew  not.  It  was  the  way  of  New  England  girls 
then  as  it  is  now.  I  had  long  talks  and  walks  with  her,  and 
quite  excited  the  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Sanderson  by  the  amount  of 
time  I  devoted  to  her. 

In  these  years  Mrs.  Sanderson  herself  had  hardly  grown  ap 
preciably  older.  Her  hair  had  become  a  little  whiter,  but  she 
retained,  apparently,  all  her  old  vigor,  and  was  the  same  strong- 
willed,  precise,  prompt,  opinionated  woman  she  was  when  I 
first  knew  her.  Jenks  and  I  had  many  sails  upon  the  atlas  suc 
ceeding  that  which  I  have  described,  but  something  had  always 
interfered  to  prevent  him  from  taking  the  final  step  which  would 
sever  his  connection  with  the  service  of  his  old  mistress  for 
ever. 

Every  time  during  these  five  years  that  I  went  home  to  spend 
my  vacation,  I  invited  Henry  to  accompany  me,  but  his  mother 
invariably  refused  to  permit  him  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Sanderson,  in 
her  disappointment,  offered  to  defray  all  the  expenses  of  the 
journey,  which,  in  the  mean  time,  had  ceased  to  be  made  with 
the  old  horse  and  chaise  ;  but  there  came  always  from  his  mother 
the  same  refusal.  The  old  lady  was  piqued  at  last,  and  became 
soured  toward  him.  Indeed,  if  she  could  have  found  a  valid 
excuse  for  the  step,  she  would  have  broken  off  our  intimacy. 
She  had  intended  an  honor  to  an  unknown  lad  in  humble  cir 
cumstances  ;  and  to  have  that  honor  persistently  spurned,  with 
out  apparent  reason,  exasperated  her.  "  The  lad  is  a  churl, 
depend  upon  it,  when  you  get  at  the  bottom  of  him,"  was  the 
stereotyped  reply  to  all  my  attempts  to  palliate  his  offence,  and 
vindicate  the  lovableness  of  his  character. 

These  years  of  study  and  development  had  wrought  great 
changes  in  me.  Though  thoroughly  healthy — thanks  to  the 
considerate  management  of  my  teacher — I  grew  up  tall  and 
slender,  and  promised  to  reach  the  reputed  altitude  of  the  old 


n6  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Bonnicastles.  I  was  a  man  in  stature  by  the  side  of  my  sister 
Claire,  and  assumed  the  dress  and  carriage  of  a  man.  Though 
Henry  was  two  years  older  than  I,  we  studied  together  in  every 
thing,  and  were  to  leave  school  together.  Our  companionship 
had  been  fruitful  of  good  to  both  of  us.  I  stirred  him  and  he 
steadied  me. 

There  was  one  aim  which  we  held  in  common — the  aim  at 
personal  integrity  and  thorough  soundness  of  character.  This 
aim  had  been  planted  in  us  both  by  Christian  parents,  and  it 
was  fostered  in  every  practicable  way  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird. 
There  was  one  habit,  learned  at  home,  which  we  never  omitted 
for  a  night  while  we  were  at  school — the  habit  of  kneeling  at 
our  bedside  before  retiring  to  slumber,  and  offering  silently  a 
prayer.  Dear  Mrs.  Bird — that  sweet  angel  of  all  the  little  boys 
— was  always  with  us  in  our  first  nights  together,  when  we  en 
gaged  in  our  devotions,  and  sealed  our  young  lips  for  sleep  with 
a  kiss.  Bidding  us  to  pray  for  what  we  wanted,  and  to  thank 
our  Father  for  all  that  we  received,  with  the  simple  and  hearty 
language  we  would  use  if  we  were  addressing  our  own  parents, 
and  adjuring  us  never,  under  any  circumstances,  to  omit  our 
offering,  she  left  us  at  last  to  ourselves.  "  Remember,"  she  used 
to  say,  "  remember  that  no  one  can  do  this  for  you.  The  boy 
who  confesses  his  sins  every  night  has  always  the  fewest  sins 
to  confess.  The  habit  of  daily  confession  and  prayer  is  the 
surest  corrective  of  all  that  is  wrong  in  your  motives  and  con 
duct." 

In  looking  back  upon  this  aspect  of  our  life  together,  I  am 
compelled  to  believe  that  both  Henry  and  myself  were  in  the 
line  of  Christian  experience.  Those  prayers  and  those  daily 
efforts  at  good,  conscientious  living,  were  the  solid  beginnings 
of  a  Christian  character.  I  do  not  permit  myself  to  question 
that  had  I  gone  on  in  that  simple  way  I  should  have  grown  into 
a  Christian  man.  The  germination  and  development  of  the 
seed  planted  far  back  in  childhood  would,  I  am  sure,  have  been 
crowned  with  a  divine  fruitage.  Both  of  us  had  been  taught 
that  we  belonged  to  the  Master — that  we  had  been  given  to 


Arthitr  Bonnicastle.  117 

Him  in  baptism.  Neither  of  us  had  been  devoted  to  Him  by 
parents  who,  having  placed  His  seal  upon  our  foreheads,  thence 
forth  strove  to  convince  us  that  we  were  the  children  of  the 
devil.  Expecting  to  be  Christians,  trying  to  live  according  to 
the  Christian  rule  of  life,  never  doubting  that  in  good  time  we 
should  be  numbered  among  Christian  disciples,  we  were  already 
Christian  disciples.  Why  should  it  be  necessary  that  the  aggre 
gate  sorrow  and  remorse  for  years  of  selfishness  and  transgres 
sion  be  crowded  into  a  few  hours  or  days  ?  Why  should  it  be 
necessary  to  be  lifted  out  of  a  great  horror  of  blackness  and 
darkness  and  tempest,  into  a  supernal  light  by  one  grand  sweep 
of  passion  ?  Are  safe  foundations  laid  in  storms  and  upheavals  ? 
Are  conviction  and  character  nourished  by  violent  access  and 
reaction  of  feeling  ?  We  give  harsh  remedies  for  desperate  dis 
eases,  and  there  are  such  things  as  desperate  diseases.  I  am 
sure  that  Henry  and  I  were  not  desperately  diseased.  The 
whole  drift  of  our  aims  was  toward  the  realization  of  a  Chris 
tian  life.  The  grand  influences  shaping  us  from  childhood 
were  Christian.  Every  struggle  with  that  which  was  base  and 
unworthy  within  us  was  inspired  by  Christian  motives.  Im 
perfect  in  knowledge,  infirm  in  will,  volatile  in  purpose  as  boys 
always  are  and  always  will  be,  still  we  were  Christian  boys,  who 
had  only  to  grow  in  order  to  rise  into  the  purer  light  and  better 
life  of  the  Christian  estate. 

I  am  thus  particular  in  speaking  of  this,  for  I  was  des 
tined  to  pass  through  an  experience  which  endangered  all 
that  I  had  won.  I  shall  write  of  this  experience  with  great 
care,  but  with  a  firm  conviction  that  my  unvarnished  story 
has  a  useful  lesson  in  it,  and  an  earnest  wish  that  it  may  advance 
the  cause  which  holds  within  itself  the  secret  of  a  world's  re 
demption.  I  am  sure  that  our  religious  teachers  do  not  com 
petently  estimate  the  power  of  religious  education  on  a  great 
multitude  of  minds,  or  adequately  measure  the  almost  infinite 
mischief  that  may  be  inflicted  upon  sensitive  natures  by  methods 
of  address  and  influence  only  adapted  to  those  who  are  sluggish 
in  temperament  or  besotted  by  vice. 


n8  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

My  long  stay  at  The  Bird's  Nest  was  a  period  of  uninterrupted 
growth  of  mind  as  well  as  of  body.  Mr.  Bird  was  a  man  who 
recognized  the  fact  that  time  is  one  of  the  elements  that  enter 
into  rf  healthy  development  of  the  mind — that  mental  digestion 
and  assimilation  are  quite  as  essential  to  true  growth  as  the  re 
ception  of  abundant  food.  Hence  his  aim  was  never  to  crowd 
a  pupil  beyond  his  powers  of  easy  digestion,  and  never  to  press 
to  engorgement  the  receptive  faculties.  To  give  the  mind  ideas 
to  live  upon  while  it  acquired  the  discipline  for  work,  was  his 
steady  practice  and  policy.  All  the  current  social  and  political 
questions  were  made  as  familiar  to  the  boys  under  his  charge  as 
they  were  to  the  reading  world  outside.  The  issues  involved 
in  every  political  contest  were  explained  to  us,  and  I  think  we 
learned  more  that  was  of  practical  use  to  us  in  after-life  from 
his  tongue  than  from  the  text-books  which  we  studied. 

Some  of  the  peculiarities  of  Mr.  Bird's  administration  I  have 
already  endeavored  to  represent,  and  one  of  these  I  must  recall 
at  the  risk  of  repetition  and  tediousness.  In  the  five  years  which 
I  spent  under  his  roof  and  care,  I  do  not  think  one  lad  left  the 
school  with  the  feeling  that  he  had  been  unjustly  treated  in  any 
instance.  No  bitter  revenges  were  cherished  in  any  heart.  If, 
in  his  haste  or  perplexity,  the  master  ever  did  a  boy  a  wrong, 
he  made  instant  and  abundant  reparation,  in  an  acknowledg 
ment  to  the  whole  school.  He  was  as  tender  of  the  humblest 
boy's  reputation  as  he  was  of  any  man's,  or  even  of  his  own. 
When  I  think  of  the  brutal  despotism  that  reigns  in  so  many 
schools  of  this  and  other  countries,  and  of  the  indecent  way  in 
which  thousands  of  sensitive  young  natures  are  tortured  by  men 
who,  in  the  sacred  office  of  the  teacher,  display  manners  that 
have  ceased  to  be  respectable  in  a  stable,  I  bless  my  kind  stars 
— nay,  I  thank  God — for  those  five  years,  and  the  sweet  influ 
ence  that  has  poured  from  them  in  a  steady  stream  through  all 
my  life. 

The  third  summer  of  my  school  life  was  "Reunion  Summer," 
and  one  week  of  vacation  was  devoted  to  the  old  boys.  It 
was  with  inexpressible  interest  that  I  witnessed  the  interviews 


A  rth u r  Bonn  icastle.  119 

between  them  and  their  teacher.  Young  men  from  college 
with  downy  whiskers  and  fashionable  clothes ;  young  men  in 
business,  with  the  air  of  business  in  their  manners;  young 
clergymen,  doctors,  and  lawyers  came  back  by  scores.  They 
brought  a  great  breeze  from  the  world  with  them,  but  all  be 
came  boys  again  when  they  entered  the  presence  of  their  old 
master.  They  kissed  him  as  they  were  wont  to  do  in  the  times 
which  had  become  old  times  to  them.  They  hung  upon  his 
neck  ;  they  walked  up  and  down  the  parlors  with  their  arms 
around  him ;  they  sat  in  his  lap,  and  told  him  of  their  changes, 
troubles  and  successes ;  and  all  were  happy  to  be  at  the  old  nest 
again. 

Ah,  what  fetes  were  crowded  into  that  happy  week  ! — what 
games  of  ball,  what  receptions,  what  excursions,  what  meetings 
and  speeches,  what  songs,  what  delightful  interminglings  of  all 
the  social  elements  of  the  village  !  What  did  it  matter  that  we 
small  boys  felt  very  small  by  the  side  of  those  young  men  whose 
old  rooms  we  were  occupying?  We  enjoyed  their  presence, 
and  found  in  it  the  promise  that  at  some  future  time  we  should 
come  back  with  whiskers  upon  our  cheeks,  and  the  last  triumphs 
of  the  tailor  in  our  coats  ! 

Henry  and  I  were  to  leave  school  in  the  autumn  ;  and  as  the 
time  drew  near  for  our  departure  dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  grew 
more  tender  toward  us,  for  we  had  been  there  longer  than  any 
of  the  other  boys.  I  think  there  was  not  a  lad  at  The  Bird's 
Nest  during  our  last  term  whom  we  found  there  on  our  entrance 
five  years  before.  Jolly  Jack  Linton  had  become  a  clerk  in  a 
city  shop,  and  was  already  thrifty  and  popular.  Tom  Kendrick 
was  in  college,  and  was  to  become  a  Christian  minister.  An 
drews,  too,  was  in  college,  and  was  bringing  great  comfort  to 
his  family  by  a  true  life  that  had  been  begun  with  so  bad  a 
promise.  Mr.  Bird  seemed  to  take  a  special  pleasure  in  our  so 
ciety,  and,  while  loosening  his  claim  upon  us  as  pupils,  to  hold  us 
as  associates  and  friends  the  more  closely.  He  loved  his  boys  as 
a  father  loves  his  children.  In  one  of  our  closing  interviews,  he 
and  Mrs.  Bird  talked  freely  of  the  life  they  had  lived,  and  its 


1 20  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

beautiful  compensations.  They  never  wearied  with  their  work, 
but  found  in  the  atmosphere  of  love  that  enveloped  them  an  in 
spiration  for  all  their  labor  and  care,  and  a  balm  for  all  their  trials 
and  troubles.  "  If  I  were  to  live  my  life  over  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Bird  to  me  one  evening,  "  I  should  choose  just  this,  and  be  per 
fectly  content."  There  are  those  teachers  who  have  thought 
and  said  that  "  every  boy  is  a  born  devil,"  and  have  taught  for 
years  because  they  were  obliged  to  teach,  with  a  thorough 
and  outspoken  detestation  of  their  work.  It  is  sad  to  think 
that  multitudes  of  boys  have  been  trained  and  misunderstood  and 
abused  by  these  men,  and  to  know  that  thousands  of  them  are 
still  in  office,  untrusted  and  unloved  by  the  tender  spirits  which 
they  have  in  charge. 

My  connection  with  Mrs.  Sanderson  was  a  subject  to  which 
Mr.  Bird  very  rarely  alluded.  I  was  sure  there  was  something 
about  it  which  he  did  not  like,  and  in  the  last  private  conversa 
tion  which  1  held  with  him  it  all  came  out. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  but  one 
fear  for  you.  You  have  already  been  greatly  injured  by  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  and  by  the  peculiar  relations  which  she  holds  to 
your  life.  In  some  respects  you  are  not  as  lovable  as  when 
you  first  came  here.  You  have  become  exclusive  in  your  so 
ciety,  obtrusive  in  your  dress,  and  fastidious  in  your  notions  of 
many  things.  You  are  under  the  spell  of  a  despotic  will,  and 
the  moulding  power  of  sentiments  entirely  foreign  to  your  nat 
ure.  She  has  not  spoiled  you,  but  she  has  injured  you.  You 
have  lost  your  liberty,  and  a  cunning  hand  is  endeavoring  to 
shape  you  to  a  destiny  which  it  has  provided  for  you.  Now  no 
wealth  can  compensate  you  for  such  a  change.  If  she  make 
you  her  heir,  as  I  think  she  intends  to  do,  she  calculates  upon 
your  becoming  a  useless  and  selfish  gentleman  after  a  pattern 
of  her  own.  Against  this  transformation  you  must  struggle. 
To  lose  your  sympathy  for  your  own  family  and  for  the  great 
multitude  of  the  poor  ;  to  limit  your  labor  to  the  nursing  of  an 
old  and  large  estate  ;  to  surrender  all  your  plans  for  an  active 
life  of  usefulness  among  men,  is  to  yield  yourself  to  a  fate  worse 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  121 

than  any  poverty  can  inflict.  It  is  to  be  bought,  to  be  paid  for, 
and  to  be  made  a  slave  of.  I  can  never  be  reconciled  to  any 
such  consummation  of  your  life." 

This  was  plain  talk,  but  it  was  such  as  he  had  a  right  to  in 
dulge  in  ;  and  I  knew  and  felt  it  to  be  true.  I  had  arrived  at 
the  conviction  in  my  own  way  before,  and  I  had  wished  in  my 
heart  of  hearts  that  I  had  had  my  own  fortune  to  make,  like 
the  other  boys  with  whom  I  had  associated.  I  knew  that 
Henry's  winter  was  to  be  devoted  to  teaching,  in  order  to  pro 
vide  himself  with  a  portion  of  the  funds  which  would  be  neces 
sary  for  the  further  pursuit  of  his  education.  He  had  been 
kept  back  by  poverty  from  entering  school  at  first,  so  that  he 
was  no  further  advanced  in  study  than  myself,  though  the  years 
had  given  him  wider  culture  and  firmer  character  than  I  pos 
sessed.  Still,  I  felt  entirely  unable  and  unwilling  to  relinquish 
advantages  which  brought  me  immunity  from  anxiety  and  care, 
and  the  position  which  those  advantages  and  my  prospects 
gave  me.  My  best  ambitions  were  already  sapped.  I  had  be 
come  weak  and  to  a  sad  extent  self-indulgent.  I  had  acquired 
no  vices,  but  my  beautiful  room  at  The  Mansion  had  been 
made  still  more  beautiful  with  expensive  appointments,  rny 
wardrobe  was  much  enlarged,  and,  in  short,  I  was  in  love  with 
riches  and  all  that  riches  procured  for  me. 

Mr.  Bird's  counsel  produced  a  deep  impression  upon  me, 
and  made  me  more  watchful  of  the  changes  in  my  character 
and  the  processes  by  which  they  were  wrought.  In  truth,  I 
strove  against  them,  in  a  weak  way,  as  a  slave  might  strive 
with  chains  of  gold,  which  charm  him  and  excite  his  cupidity 
while  they  bind  him. 

Here,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  mention  the  fact  that  there  was 
one  subject  which  Henry  would  never  permit  me  to  talk  about, 
viz.,  the  relations  with  Mrs.  Sanderson  upon  whose  baleful 
power  over  me  Mr.  Bird  had  animadverted  so  severely.  Why 
these  and  my  allusions  to  them  were  so  distasteful  to  him,  I  did 
not  know,  and  could  not  imagine,  unless  it  were  that  he  did 

not  like  to  realize  the  difference  between  his  harder  lot  and 
6 


122  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

mine.  "  Please  never  mention  the  name  of  Mrs.  Sanderson  to 
me  again,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  almost  ill-naturedly,  and 
quite  peremptorily.  "  I  am  tired  of  the  old  woman,  and  I 
should  think  you  would  be." 

Quite  unexpectedly,  toward  the  close  of  the  term,  I  received 
a  letter  from  my  father,  conveying  a  hearty  invitation  to  Henry 
to  accompany  me  to  Bradford,  and  become  a  guest  in  his  house. 
With  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Sanderson's  displeasure  before  my  eyes, 
should  he  accept  an  invitation  from  my  father  which  he  had 
once  and  many  times  again  declined  when  extended  by  herself, 
I  was  mean  enough  to  consider  the  purpose  of  withholding  it 
from  him  altogether.  But  I  wanted  him  in  Bradford.  I  wanted 
to  show  him  to  my  friends,  and  so,  risking  all  untoward  con 
sequences,  I  read  him  the  invitation. 

Henry's  face  brightened  in  an  instant,  and,  without  consult 
ing  his  mother,  he  said  at  once  :  "  I  shall  go." 

Very  much  surprised,  and  fearful  of  what  would  come  of  it, 
I  blundered  out  some  faint  expression  of  my  pleasure  at  the 
prospect  of  his  continued  society,  and  the  matter  was  settled. 

I  cannot  recall  our  parting  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  without 
a  blinding  suffusion  of  the  eyes.  Few  words  were  said.  "You 
know  it  all,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Bird,  as  he  put  his  arms  around 
me,  and  pressed  me  to  his  side.  "  I  took  you  into  my  heart 
when  I  first  saw  you,  and  you  will  live  there  until  you  prove 
yourself  unworthy  of  the  place." 

For  several  years  a  lumbering  old  stage-coach  with  two 
horses  had  run  between  Hillsborough  and  Bradford,  and  to 
this  vehicle  Henry  and  I  committed  our  luggage  and  ourselves. 
It  was  a  tedious  journey,  which  terminated  at  nightfall,  and 
brought  us  first  to  my  father's  house.  Ordering  my  trunks 
to  be  carried  to  The  Mansion,  I  went  in  to  introduce  Henry 
to  the  family,  with  the  purpose  of  completing  my  own  jour 
ney  on  foot. 

Henry  was  evidently  a  surprise  to  them  all.  Manly  in  si/e, 
mould  and  bearing,  he  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  person 
whom  they  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  a  lad.  There 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  123 

was  embarrassment  at  first,  which  Henry's  quiet  and  unpre 
tending  manners  quickly  dissipated  ;  and  soon  the  stream  of 
easy  conversation  was  set  flowing,  and  we  were  all  happy  to 
gether.  I  quickly  saw  that  my  sister  Claire  had  become  the 
real  mistress  of  the  household.  The  evidences  of  her  care  were 
everywhere.  My  mother  was  feeble  and  prone  to  melancholy ; 
but  her  young  spirit,  full  of  vitality,  had  asserted  its  sway,  and 
produced  a  new  atmosphere  in  the  little  establishment.  Order, 
taste,  and  a  look  of  competency  and  comfort  prevailed.  Without 
any  particular  motive,  I  watched  the  interchange  of  address 
and  impression  between  Henry  and  my  sister.  It  was  as 
charming  as  a  play.  Two  beings  brought  together  from  dif 
ferent  worlds  could  not  have  appeared  more  interested  in  each 
other.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  blue  eyes  were  luminous, 
her  words  were  fresh  and  vivacious,  and  with  a  woman's  quick 
instinct  she  felt  that  she  pleased  him.  Absorbed  in  his  study 
of  the  new  nature  thus  opened  to  him,  Henry  so  far  forgot 
the  remainder  of  the  family  as  to  address  all  his  words  to  her. 
If  my  father  asked  him  a  question,  he  answered  it  to  Claire. 
If  he  told  a  story,  or  related  an  incident  of  our  journey  home 
ward,  he  addressed  it  to  her,  as  if  her  eaTs  were  the  only  ones 
that  could  hear  it,  or  at  least  were  those  which  would  hear  it 
with  the  most  interest.  I  cannot  say  that  I  had  not  anticipated 
something  like  this.  I  had  wondered,  at  least,  how  they  would 
like  each  other.  Claire's  hand  lighted  the  candle  with  which  I 
led  him  to  his  room.  Claire's  hand  had  arranged  the  little 
bouquet  which  we  found  upon  his  table. 

"  I  shall  like  all  your  father's  family  very  much,  I  know," 
said  Henry,  in  our  privacy. 

I  was  quick  enough  to  know  who  constituted  the  largest 
portion  of  the  family,  in  his  estimate  of  the  aggregate. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  positive  unhappiness  and  humilia 
tion  that  I  at  last  took  leave  of  the  delightful  and  delighted 
circle,  and  bent  my  steps  to  my  statelier  lodgings  and  the 
society  of  my  cold  and  questioning  Aunt.  I  knew  that  there 
would  be  no  hope  of  hiding  from  her  the  fact  that  Henry  had 


124  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

accompanied  me  home,  and  that  entire  frankness  and  prompt 
ness  in  announcing  it  was  my  best  policy ;  but  I  dreaded  the 
impression  it  would  make  upon  her.  I  found  her  awaiting  my 
arrival,  and  met  from  her  a  hearty  greeting.  How  1  wished 
that  Henry  were  a  hundred  miles  away  ! 

"I  left  my  old  chum  at  my  father's,"  I  said,  almost  before 
she  had  time  to  ask  me  a  question. 

"  You  did  ! "  she  exclaimed,  her  dark  eyes  flaming  with  anger. 
"  How  came  he  there  ?  " 

"  My  father  invited  him  and  he  came  home  with  me,"  J  re 
plied. 

"  So  he  spurns  your  invitation  and  mine,  and  accepts  your 
father's.  Will  you  explain  this  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  cannot,"  I  replied.  "  I  have  nothing  to  say,  ex 
cept  that  I  am  sorry  and  ashamed." 

"  I  should  think  so  !  1  should  think  so  1 "  she  exclaimed,  ris 
ing  and  walking  up  and  down  the  little  library.  "  I  should 
think  so,  indeed  !  One  thing  is  proved,  at  least,  and  proved  to 
your  satisfaction,  I  hope — that  he  is  not  a  gentleman.  I  really 
must  forbid" — here  she  checked  herself,  and  reconsidered. 
She  saw  that  I  did  'not  follow  her  with  my  sympathy,  and 
thought  best  to  adopt  other  methods  for  undermining  my  friend 
ship  for  him. 

"Arthur,"  she  said,  at  last,  seating  herself  and  controlling 
her  rage,  "your  model  friend  has  insulted  both  of  us.  I  am  an 
old  woman,  and  he  is  nothing  to  me.  He"  has  been  invited 
here  solely  on  your  account,  and,  if  he  is  fond  of  you,  he  has 
declined  the  invitation  solely  on  mine.  There  is  a  certain 
chivalry — a  sense  of  what  is  due  to  any  woman  under  these 
circumstances — that  you  understand  as  well  as  I  do,  and  I 
shall  leave  you  to  accept  or  reject  its  dictates.  I  ask  nothing 
of  you  that  is  based  in  any  way  on  my  relations  to  you.  This 
fellow  has  grossly,  and  without  any  apology  or  explanation, 
slighted  my  courtesies,  and  crowned  his  insult  by  accepting 
those  coming  from  a  humbler  source — from  one  of  my  own  ten 
ants,  in  fact." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  125 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  I  responded.  "  I  am  really  not  to 
blame  for  his  conduct,  but  I  should  be  ashamed  to  quarrel  with 
anybody  because  he  would  not  do  what  I  wanted  him  to  do." 

"  Very  well.  If  that  is  your  conclusion,  I  must  ask  you  never 
to  mention  his  name  to  me  again,  and  if  you  hold  any  commu 
nication  with  him,  never  to  tell  me  of  it.  You  disappoint  me, 
but  you  are  young,  and  you  must  be  bitten  yourself  before  you 
will  learn  to  let  dogs  alone." 

I  had  come  out  of  the  business  quite  as  well  as  I  expected 
to,  but  it  was  her  way  of  working.  She  saw  that  I  loved  my 
companion  with  a  firmness  that  she  could  not  shake,  and  that 
it  really  was  not  in  me  to  quarrel  with  him.  She  must  wait  for 
favoring  time  and  circumstances,  and  resort  to  other  arts  to 
accomplish  her  ends — arts  of  which  she  was  the  conscious  mis 
tress.  She  had  not  forbidden  me  to  see  him  and  hold  inter 
course  with  him.  She  knew,  indeed,  that  I  must  see  him,  and 
that  I  could  not  quarrel  with  him  without  offending  my  father, 
whose  guest  he  was — a  contingency  to  be  carefully  avoided. 

I  knew,  however,  that  all  practical  means  would  be  used  to 
keep  me  out  of  his  company  during  his  stay  in  Bradford,  and  I 
was  not  surprised  to  be  met  the  next  morning  with  a  face  cleared 
from  all  traces  of  anger  and  sullenness,  and  with  projects  for 
the  occupation  of  my  time. 

"  I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  woman,  Arthur,"  said  she,  after 
a  cheery  breakfast,  "  and  need  help  in  my  affairs,  which  you 
ought  to  be  capable  of  giving  me  now." 

I  assured  her  most  sincerely  that  nothing  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  to  make  what  return  I  could  for  the  kind 
ness  she  had  shown  me. 

Accordingly,  she  brought  out  her  accounts,  and  as  she  laid 
down  her  books,  and  package  after  package  of  papers,  she 
said :  "  I  am  going  to  let  you  into  some  of  my  secrets.  AH 
that  you  see  here,  and  learn  of  my  affairs,  is  to  be  entirely  con 
fidential.  I  shall  show  you  more  than  my  lawyer  knows,  and 
more  than  anybody  knows  beyond  myself." 

Then  she  opened  an  account  book,  and  in  a  neat  hand  made 


126  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

out  a  bill  for  rent  to  one  of  her  tenants.  This  was  the  form 
she  wished  me  to  follow  in  making  out  twenty-five  or  thirty 
other  bills  which  she  pointed  out  to  me.  As  I  did  the  work 
with  much  painstaking,  the  task  gave  me  employment  during 
the  whole  of  the  morning.  At  its  close,  we  wont  over  it  to 
gether,  and  she  was  warm  in  her  praises  of  my  handwriting  and 
the  correctness  of  my  transcript. 

After  dinner  she  told  me  she  would  like  to  have  me  look  over 
some  of  the  papers  which  she  had  left  on  the  table.  "  It  is  pos 
sible,"  she  said,  "  that  you  may  find  something  that  will  interest 
you.  I  insist  only  on  two  conditions  :  you  are  to  keep  secret 
everything  you  learn,  and  ask  me  no  question  about  what  may 
most  excite  your  curiosity." 

One  ponderous  bundle  of  papers  I  found  to  be  composed 
entirely  of  bonds  and  mortgages.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  her 
hold  upon  nearly  every  desirable  piece  of  property  in  the  town. 
By  giving  me  a  view  of  this  and  showing  me  her  rent-roll,  she 
undoubtedly  intended  to  exhibit  her  wealth,  which  was  certainly 
very  much  greater  than  I  had  suspected.  "  All  this  if  you  con 
tinue  to  please  me,"  was  what  the  exhibition  meant ;  and,  young 
as  I  was,  I  knew  what  it  meant.  To  hold  these  pledges  of  real 
estate,  and  to  own  this  rent-roll  was  to  hold  power  ;  and  with 
that  precious  package  in  my  hands  there  came  to  me  my  first 
ambition  for  power,  and  a  recognition  of  that  thirst  to  gratify 
which  so  many  men  had  bartered  their  honor  and  their  souls. 
In  that  book  and  in  those  papers  lay  the  basis  of  the  old  lady's 
self-assurance.  It  was  to  these  that  men  bowed  with  deferen 
tial  respect  or  superfluous  fawning.  It  was  to  these  that  fine 
ladies  paid  their  devoirs  ;  and  a  vision  of  the  future  showed  all 
these  demonstrations  of  homage  transferred  to  me — a  young 
man — with  life  all  before  me.  The  prospect  held  not  only 
these  but  a  thousand  delights — travel  in  foreign  lands,  horses 
and  household  pets,  fine  equipage,  pictures,  brilliant  society,  and 
some  sweet,  unknown  angel  in  the  form  of  a  woman,  to  be  loved 
and  petted  and  draped  with  costly  fabrics  and  fed  upon  dainties. 

I  floated  off  into  a  wild,  intoxicating  dream.     All  the  possi- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  127 

bilities  of  my  future  came  before  me.  In  my  imagination  I 
already  stood  behind  that  great  bulwark  against  a  thousand  ills 
of  life  which  money  builds,  and  felt  myself  above  the  petty 
needs  that  harass  the  toiling  multitude.  I  was  already  a  social 
center  and  a  king.  Yet  after  all,  when  the  first  excitement 
was  over,  and  I  realized  the  condition  that  lay  between  me  and 
the  realization  of  my  dreams — "all  this  if  you  continue  to 
please  me  " — I  knew  and  felt  that  I  was  a  slave.  I  was  not 
my  own  :  I  had  been  purchased.  I  could  not  freely  follow 
even  the  impulses  of  my  own  natural  affection. 

Tiring  of  the  package  at  last,  and  of  the  thoughts  and 
emotions  it  excited,  I  turned  to  others.  One  after  another  I 
took  them  up  and  partly  examined  then),  but  they  were  mostly 
dead  documents — old  policies  of  insurance  long  since  expired, 
old  contracts  for  the  erection  of  buildings  that  had  themselves 
grown  old,  mortgages  that  had  been  canceled,  old  abstracts  of 
title,  etc.,  etc.  At  last  I  found,  at  the  bottom  of  the  pile,  a 
package  yellow  with  age ;  and  I  gasped  with  astonishment  as  I 
read  on  the  back  of  the  first  paper  :  "James  Mansfield  to  Peter 
Bonnicastle"  I  drew  it  quickly  from  the  tape,  and  saw  ex 
posed  upon  the  next  paper  :  "Julius  Wheeler  to  Peter  Bonni 
castle."  Thus  the  name  went  on  down  through  the  whole 
package.  All  the  papers  were  old,  and  all  of  them  were  deeds 
— some  of  them  conveying  thousands  of  acres  of  colonial 
lands.  Thus  I  learned  two  things  that  filled  me  with  such  de 
light  and  pride  as  I  should  find  it  altogether  impossible  to 
describe  ;  first,  that  the  fortune  which  I  had  been  examining, 
and  which  I  had  a  tolerable  prospect  of  inheriting,  had  its 
foundations  laid  a  century  before  by  one  of  my  own  ancestors  ; 
and  second,  that  Mrs.  Sanderson  and  I  had  common  blood  in 
our  veins.  This  discovery  quite  restored  my  self-respect, 
because  I  should  arrive  at  my  inheritance  by  at  least  a  show 
of  right.  The  property  would  remain  in  the  family  where  it 
belonged,  and,  so  far  as  I  knew,  no  member  of  the  family 
would  have  a  better  right  to  it  than  myself.  I  presumed  that 
my  father  was  a  descendant  of  this  same  Peter  Bonnicastle, 


128  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

who  was  doubtless  a  notable  man  in  his  time  ;  and  only  the 
accidents  of  fortune  had  diverted  this  large  wealth  from  my 
own  branch  of  the  family. 

This  discovery  brought  up  to  my  memory  the  conversations 
that  had  taken  place  in  my  home  on  my  first  arrival  in  the 
town,  between  Mr.  Bradford  and  my  father.  Here  was  where 
the  "blue  blood"  came  from,  and  Mr.  Bradford  had  known 
about  this  all  the  time.  It  was  his  hint  to  Mrs.  Sanderson 
that  had  procured  for  me  my  good  fortune.  My  first  impulse 
was  to  thank  him  for  his  service,  and  to  tell  him  that  I  probably 
knew  as  much  as  he  did  of  my  relations  to  Mrs.  Sanderson  ;  but 
the  seal  of  secrecy  was  upon  my  lips.  I  recalled  to  mind  Mrs. 
Sanderson's  astonishment  and  strange  behavior  when  she  first 
heard  my  father's  name,  and  thus  all  the  riddles  of  that  first 
interview  were  solved. 

Pride  of  wealth  and  power  had  now  firmly  united  itself  in  my 
mind  with  pride  of  ancestry ;  and  though  there  were  humili 
ating  considerations  connected  with  my  relations  to  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  my  self-respect  had  been  wonderfully  strengthened, 
and  I  found  that  my  heart  was  going  out  to  the  little  old  lady 
with  a  new  sentiment — a  sentiment  of  kinship,  if  not  of  love. 
I  identified  myself  with  her  more  perfectly  than  1  had  hitherto 
done.  She  had  placed  confidence  in  me,  she  had  praised  my 
work,  and  she  was  a  Bonnicastle. 

I  have  often  looked  back  upon  the  revelations  and  the 
history  of  that  day,  and  wondered  whether  it  was  possible  that 
she  had  foreseen  all  the  processes  of  mind  through  which  I 
passed,  and  intelligently  and  deliberately  contrived  to  procure 
them.  She  must  have  done  so.  There  was  not  an  instrument 
wanting  for  the  production  of  the  result  she  desired,  and  there 
was  nothing  wanting  in  the  result 

The  afternoon  passed,  and  I  neither  went  home  nor  felt  a 
desire  to  do  so.  In  the  evening  she  invited  me  to  read,  and 
thus  I  spent  a  pleasant  hour  preparatory  to  an  early  bed. 

"  You  have  been  a  real  comfort  to  me  to-day,  Arthur,"  she 
said,  as  I  kissed  her  forehead  and  bade  her  good-night. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  129 

What  more  could  a  lad  who  loved  praise  ask  than  this  ?  I 
went  to  sleep  entirely  happy,  and  with  a  new  determination  to 
devote  myself  more  heartily  to  the  will  and  the  interests  of  my 
benefactress.  It  ceased  to  be  a  great  matter  that  my  com 
panion  for  five  years  was  in  my  father's  home,  and  I  saw  little 
of  him.  I  was  employed  with  writing  and  with  business 
errands  all  the  time.  During  Henry's  visit  in  Bradford  I  was  in 
and  out  of  my  father's  house,  as  convenience  favored,  and  always 
while  on  an  errand  that  waited.  I  think  Henry  appreciated 
the  condition  of  affairs,  and  as  he  and  Claire  were  on  charming 
terms,  and  my  absence  gave  him  more  time  with  her,  I  presume 
that  he  did  not  miss  me.  All  were  glad  to  see  me  useful,  and 
happy  in  my  usefulness. 

When  Henry  went  away  I  walked  down  to  bid  him  farewell. 
"Now  don't  cry,  my  boy,"  said  Henry,  "for  I  am  coming 
back;  and  don't  be  excited  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
engaged  to  spend  the  winter  in  Bradford.  I  was  wondering 
where  1  could  find  a  school  to  teach,  and  the  school  has  come 
to  me,  examining  committee  and  all." 

I  was  d(  lighted.  I  looked  at  Claire  with  the  unguarded  im 
pulse  of  a  boy,  and  it  brought  the  blood  into  her  cheeks  pain 
fully.  Henry  parted  with  her  very  quietly — indeed,  with 
studied  quietness — but  was  warm  in  his  thanks  to  my  father 
and  mother  for  their  hospitality,  and  hearty  with  the  boys,  with 
whom  he  had  become  a  great  favorite. 

I  saw  that  Henry  was  happy,  and  particularly  happy  in  the 
thought  of  returning.  As  the  stage-coach  rattled  away,  he 
kissed  his  hand  to  us  all,  and  shouted  "  Au  revoir  !  "  as  if  his 
anticipations  of  pleasure  were  embraced  in  those  words  rather 
than  in  the  fact  that  he  was  homeward-bound. 
6* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

I  AM  INTRODUCED  TO  NEW  CHARACTERS  AND  ENTER  THE 
SHADOW  OF  THE  GREAT  BEDLOW  REVIVAL. 

WHILE  Henry*  was  a  guest  at  my  old  home,  Mr.  Bradford 
resumed  his  visits  there.  That  he  had  had  much  to  do  with 
securing  my  father's  prosperity  in  his  calling,  I  afterwards 
learned  with  gratitude,  but  he  had  done  it  without  his  humble 
friend's  knowledge,  and  while  studiously  keeping  aloof  from 
him.  I  never  could  imagine  any  reason  for  his  policy  in  this 
matter  except  the  desire  to  keep  out  of  Mrs.  Sanderson's  way. 
He  seemed,  too,  to  have  a  special  interest  in  Henry;  and 
it  soon  came  to  my  ears  that  he  had  secured  for  him  his  place 
as  teacher  of  one  of  the  public  schools.  Twice  during  the 
young  man's  visit  at  Bradford,  he  had  called  and  invited  him 
to  an  evening  walk,  on  the  pretext  of  showing  him  some  of  the 
more  interesting  features  of  the  rapidly  growing  little  city. 

Henry's  plan  for  study  was  coincident  with  my  own.  We 
had  both  calculated  to  perfect  our  preparation  for  college 
during  the  winter  and  following  spring,  under  private  tuition  ; 
and  this  work,  which  would  be  easy  for  me,  was  to  be  accom 
plished  by  him  during  the  hours  left  from  his  school  duties. 
I  made  my  own  independent  arrangements  for  recitation  and 
direction,  as  I  knew  such  a  course  would  best  please  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  and  left  him  to  do  the  same  on  his  return.  With 
an  active  temperament  and  the  new  stimulus  which  had  come 
to  me  with  a  better  knowledge  of  my  relations  and  prospects, 
I  found  my  mind  and  my  time  fully  absorbed.  When  I  was 
not  engaged  in  study,  I  was  actively  assisting  Mrs.  Sanderson 
in  her  affairs. 

One  morning  in  the  early  winter,  after  Henry  had  returned, 
and  had  been  for  a  week  or  two  engaged  in  his  school,  I  met 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  131 

Mr.  Bradford  on  the  street,  and  received  from  him  a  cordial 
invitation  to  take  tea  and  spend  the  evening  at  his  home. 
Without  telling  me  what  company  I  should  meet,  he  simply 
said  that  there  were  to  be  two  or  three  young  people  beside 
me,  and  that  he  wanted  Mrs.  Bradford  to  know  me.  Up  to 
this  time,  I  had  made  comparatively  few  acquaintances  in  the 
town,  and  had  entered,  in  a  social  way,  very  few  homes. 
The  invitation  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  for  Mr.  Brad 
ford  stood  high  in  the  social  scale,  so  that  'Mrs.  Sanderson 
could  make  no  plausible  objection  to  my  going.  I  was  careful 
not  to  speak  of  the  matter  to  Henry,  whom  I  accidentally 
met  during  the  day,  and  particularly  careful  not  to  mention 
it  in  my  father's  family,  for  fear  that  Claire  might  feel  herself 
slighted.  I  was  therefore  thoroughly  surprised  when  I  entered 
Mrs.  Bradford's  cheerful  drawing-room  to  find  there,  engaged 
in  the  merriest  conversation  with  the  family,  both  Henry  and 
my  sister  Claire.  Mr.  Bradford  rose  and  met  me  at  the  door 
in  his  own  hospitable,  hearty  way,  and,  grasping  my  right  hand, 
put  his  free  arm  around  me,  and  led  me  to  Mrs.  Bradford 
and  presented  me.  She  was  a  sweet,  pale-faced  little  woman, 
with  large  blue  eyes,  with  which  she  peered  into  mine  with  a 
charming  look  of  curious  inquiry.  If  she  had  said  :  "  I 
have  long  wanted  to  know  you,  and  am  fully  prepared  to  be 
pleased  with  you  and  to  love  you,"  she  would  only  have  put 
into  words  the  meaning  which  her  look  conveyed.  I  had 
never  met  with  a  greeting  that  more  thoroughly  delighted  me, 
or  placed  me  more  at  my  ease,  or  stimulated  me  more  to  show 
what  there  was  of  good  in  me. 

"  This  is  my  sister,  Miss  Lester,"  said  she,  turning  to  a  prim 
personage  sitting  by  the  fire. 

As  the  lady  did  not  rise,  I  bowed  to  her  at  a  distance,  and 
she  recognized  me  with  a  little  nod,  as  if  she  would  have  said  : 
"  You  are  well  enough  for  a  boy,  but  I  don't  see  the  propriety 
of  putting  myself  out  for  such  young  people." 

The  contrast  between  her  greeting  and  that  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bradford  led  me  to  give  her  more  than  a  passing  look.  I  con- 


132  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

eluded  at  once  that  she  was  a  maiden  of  an  age  more  advanced 
than  she  should  be  willing  to  confess,  and  a  person  with  ways 
and  tempers  of  her  own.  She  sat  alone,  trotting  her  knees, 
looking  into  the  fire,  and  knitting  with  such  emphasis  as  to 
give  an  electric  snap  to  every  pass  of  her  glittering  needles. 
She  was  larger  than  Mrs.  Bradford,  and  her  dark  hair  and 
swarthy  skin,  gathered  into  a  hundred  wrinkles  around  her  black 
eyes,  produced  a  strange  contrast  between  the  sisters. 

Mrs.  Bradford,  I  soon  learned,  was  one  of  those  women  in 
whom  the  motherly  instinct  is  so  strong  that  no  living  thing 
can  come  into  their  presence  without  exciting  their  wish  to 
care  for  it.  The  first  thing  she  did,  therefore,  after  I  had 
exchanged  greetings,  was  to  set  a  chair  for  me  at  the  fire, 
because  she  knew  I  must  be  cold  and  my  feet  must  be  wet. 
When  I  assured  her  that  I  was  neither  cold  nor  wet,  and  she 
had  accepted  the  statement  with  evident  incredulity  and 
disappointment,  she  insisted  that  I  should  change  my  chair 
for  an  easier  one.  I  did  this  to  accommodate  her,  and  then 
she  took  a  fancy  that  I  had  a  headache  and  needed  a  bottle 
of  salts.  This  I  found  in  my  hand  before  I  knew  it. 

As  these  attentions  were  rendered,  they  were  regarded  by 
Air.  Bradford  with  good-natured  toleration,  but  there  issued 
from  the  corner  where  "  Aunt  Flick"  sat — for  from  some  lip  I 
had  already  caught  her  home-name — little  impatient  sniffs,  and 
raps  upon  the  hearth  with  her  trotting  heel. 

"  Jane  Bradford,"  Aunt  Flick  broke  out  at  last,  "  I  should 
think  you'd  be  ashamed.  You've  done  nothing  but  worry  that 
boy  since  he  came  into  the  room.  One  would  think  he  was  a 
baby,  and  that  it  was  your  business  to  'tend  him.  Just  as  if  he 
didn't  know  whether  he  was  cold,  or  his  feet  were  wet,  or 
his  head  ached  !  Just  as  if  he  didn't  know  enough  to  go  to 
the  fire  if  he  wanted  to  !  Millie,  get  the  cat  for  your  mother, 
and  bring  in  the  dog.  Something  must  be  nursed,  of  course." 

"  Why,  Flick,  dear  !  "  was  all  Mrs.  Bradford  said,  but  Mr. 
Bradford  looked  amused,  and  there  came  from  a  corner  of  the 
room  that  my  eyes  had  not  explored  the  merriest  young  laugh 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  133 

imaginable.  I  had  no  doubt  as  to  its  authorship.  Seeing 
that  the  evening  was  to  be  an  informal  one,  I  had  already 
begun  to  wonder  where  the  little  girl  might  be,  with  whose  face 
I  had  made  a  brief  acquaintance  five  years  before,  and  of 
whom  I  had  caught  occasional  glimpses  in  the  interval. 

Mr.  Bradford  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  laugh,  and  ex 
claiming  :  "  You  saucy  puss  ! "  started  from  his  chair,  and  found 
her  seated  behind  an  ottoman,  where  she  had  been  quietly 
reading. 

"  Oh,  father !  don't,  please  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  he  drew  her 
from  her  retreat.  She  resisted  at  first,  but  when  she  saw  that 
she  was  fully  discovered,  she  consented  to  be  led  forward  and 
presented  to  us. 

"  When  a  child  is  still,"  said  Aunt  Flick,  "  I  can't  see  the 
use  of  stirring  her  up,  unless  it  is  to  send  her  to  bed." 

"  Why,  Flick,  dear  !"  said  Mrs.  Bradford  again ;  but  Mr.  Brad 
ford  took  no  notice  of  the  remark,  and  led  the  little  girl  to  us. 
She  shook  hands  with  us,  and  then  her  mother  caught  and 
pulled  her  into  her  lap. 

"Jane  Bradford,  why  will  you  burden  yourself  with  that 
heavy  child  ?  I  should  think  you  would  be  ill." 

Millie's  black  eyes  flashed,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  I  had 
an  opportunity  to  study  her  wonderful  beauty.  As  I  looked  at 
her,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  a  gypsy.  I  could  not  imagine 
how  it  was  possible  that  she  should  be  the  daughter  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bradford.  It  was  as  if  some  unknown,  oriental  ancestor  had 
reached  across  the  generations  and  touched  her,  revealing  to 
her  parents  the  long-lost  secrets  of  their  own  blood.  Her  hair 
hung  in  raven  ringlets,  and  her  dark,  healthy  skin  was  as 
smooth  and  soft  as  the  petal  of  a  pansy.  She  had  put  on  a 
scarlet  jacket  for  comfort,  in  her  distant  corner,  and  the  color 
heightened  all  her  charms.  Her  face  was  bright  with  intel 
ligence,  and  her  full,  mobile  lips  and  dimpled  chin  were  charged 
with  the  prophecy  of  a  wonderfully  beautiful  womanhood.  I 
looked  at  her  quite  enchanted,  and  I  am  sure  that  she  was 
conscious  of  my  scrutiny,  for  she  disengaged  herself  gently  from 


134  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

her  mother's  hold,  and  saying  that  she  -wished  to  finish  the 
chapter  she  had  been  reading,  went  back  to  her  seclusion. 

The  consciousness  of  her  presence  in  the  room  somehow 
destroyed  my  interest  in  the  other  members  of  the  family,  and 
as  I  felt  no  restraint  in  the  warm  and  free  social  atmosphere 
around  me,  I  soon  followed  her  to  her  corner,  and  sat  down 
upon  the  ottoman  behind  which,  upon  a  hassock,  she  had  en 
sconced  herself. 

"What  have  you  come  here  for?"  she  inquired  wonderingly, 
looking  up  into  my  eyes. 

"  To  sec  you,"  I  replied. 

"  Aren't  you  a  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  only  a  big  boy." 

"Why,  that's  jolly,"  said  she.  "Then  you  can  be  my  com 
pany." 

"  Certainly,"  I  responded. 

"  Well,  then,  what  shall  we  do  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
how  to  play  with  a  boy.  I  never  did." 

"We  can  talk,"  I  said.  "  What  a  funny  woman  your  Aunt 
Flick  is  !  Doesn't  she  bother  you  ?  " 

She  paused,  looked  down,  then  looked  up  into  my  face,  and 
said  decidedly  :  "I  don't  like  that  question." 

"  I  meant  nothing  ill  by  it,"  I  responded. 

"  Yes  you  did  ;  you  meant  something  ill  to  Aunt  Flick." 

"  But  I  thought  she  bothered  you,"  I  said. 

"  Did  I  say  so  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Well,  when  I  say  so,  I  shall  say  so  to  her.  Papa  and  I 
understand  it." 

So  this  was  my  little  girl,  with  a  feeling  of  family  loyalty  in 
her  heart,  and  a  family  pride  that  did  not  choose  to  discuss 
with  strangers  the  foibles  of  kindred  and  the  jars  of  home  life. 
I  was  rebuked,  though  the  consciousness  of  the  fact  came  too 
slowly  to  excite  pain.  It  was  her  Aunt  Flick  ;  and  a  stranger 
had  no  right  to  question  or  criticise.  That  was  what  I  gath 
ered  from  her  words  ;  and  there  was  so  much  that  charmed  me 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  135 

in  this  fine  revelation  of  character,  that  I  quite  lost  sight  of  the 
fact  that  I  had  been  snubbed. 

"  She  has  a  curious  name,  any  way,"  I  said. 

At  this  lier  face  lighted  up,  and  she  exclaimed  :  "  Oh  !  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  that.  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  ever  so  much 
smaller  than  I  am  now,  we  had  a  minister  in  the  house.  You 
know  marnma  takes  care  of  everybody,  and  when  the  minister 
came  to  town  he  came  here,  because  nobody  else  would  have 
him.  He  stayed  here  ever  so  long,  and  used  to  say  grace  at 
the  table  and  have  prayers.  Aunt  Flick  was  sick  at  the  time, 
and  he  used  to  pray  every  morning  for  our  poor  afflicted  sister, 
and  papa  was  full  of  fun  with  her,  just  to  keep  up  her  courage, 
I  suppose,  and  called  her  "Flicted,'  and  then  he  got  to  calling 
her  'Flick'  for  a  nickname,  and  now  we  all  call  her  Flick." 

"  But  does  she  like  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  used  to  it,  and  don't  mind." 

Millie  had  closed  her  book,  and  sat  with  it  on  her  lap,  her 
large  black  eyes  looking  up  into  mine  in  a  dreamy  way. 

"  There's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  Millie, 
"and  that  is,  where  all  the  books  came  from.  Were  they 
always  here,  like  the  ground,  or  did  somebody  make  them  ? " 

"  Somebody  made  them,"  I  said. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  responded. 

"  But  if  nobody  made  them,  how  did  they  come  here  ?  " 

"  They  are  real  things  :  somebody  found  them." 

"  No,  I've  seen  men  who  wrote  books,  and  women  too,"  I 
said. 

"  How  did  they  look?" 

"  Very  much  like  other  people." 

"  And  did  they  act  like  other  people  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  that  shows  that  they  found  them.  They  are  hum 
bugs." 

I  laughed,  and  assured  her  that  she  was  mistaken. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  if  anybody  can  make  books  I  can  ;  and 
if  I  don't  get  married  and  keep  house  I  shall." 


136  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Very  much  amused,  I  asked  her  which  walk  of  life  she  would 
prefer. 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  to  be  married." 

"  You  are  sensible,"  I  said. 

"Not  to  any  boy  or  young  man,  though,"  responded  the 
child,  with  peculiar  and  suggestive  emphasis. 

"  And  why  not?" 

"  They  are  so  silly ; "  and  she  gave  her  curls  a  disdainful 
toss.  "  I  shall  marry  a  big  man  like  papa,  with  gray  whiskers 
— somebody  that  I  can  adore,  you  know." 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  you  had  better  not  be  married,"  I  re 
plied.  "  Perhaps,  after  all,  you  had  better  write  books." 

"  If  I  should  ever  write  a  book,"  said  Millie,  looking  out  of 
the  window,  as  if  she  were  reviewing  the  long  chain  of  charac 
ters  and  incidents  of  which  it  was  to  be  composed,  "  I  should 
begin  at  the  foundation  of  the  world,  and  come  up  through 
Asia,  or  Arabia,  or  Cappadocia  .  .  .  and  stop  under  palm- 
trees  .  .  .  and  have  a  lot  of  camels  with  bells.  ...  I  should 
have  a  young  man  with  a  fez  and  an  old  man  with  a  long  beard, 
and  a  chibouk,  and  a  milk-white  steed.  ...  I  should  have  a 
maiden  too  beautiful  for  anything,  and  an  Arab  chieftain  with  a 
military  company  on  horseback,  kicking  up  a  great  dust  in  the 
desert,  and  coming  after  her.  .  .  .  And  then  I  should  have  some 
sort  of  an  escape,  and  I  should  hide  the  maiden  in  a  tower 
somewhere  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube.  .  .  .  And  then  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  with  her." 

"You  would  marry  her  to  the  young  man  with  the  fez, 
wouldn't  you  ?"  I  suggested. 

"Perhaps — if  I  didn't  conclude  to  kill  him." 

"  You  couldn't  be  so  cruel  as  that,"  I  said. 

"  Why,  that's  the  fun  of  it :  you  can  stab  a  man  right  through 
the  heart  in  a  book,  and  spill  every  drop  of  his  blood  without 
hurting  him  a  particle." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  see  but  you  have  made  a  book  al 
ready." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  137 

"  Would  that  really  be  a  book  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  eagerly 
into  my  face. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  it's  just  as  I  thought  it  was.  I  didn't  make  a  bit  of 
it.  I  saw  it.  I  found  it.  They're  everywhere,  and  people 
see  them,  just  like  flowers,  and  pick  them  up  and  press 
them." 

It  was  not  until  years  after  this  that  with  my  slower  mascu 
line  intellect  and  feebler  instincts  I  appreciated  the  beauty  of 
this  revelation  and  the  marvelous  insight  which  it  betrayed. 
These  crude  tropical  fancies  she  could  not  entertain  with  any 
sense  of  ownership  or  authorship.  They  came  of  themselves, 
in  gorgeous  forms  and  impressive  combinations,  and  passed 
before  her  vision.  She  talked  of  what  she  saw — not  of  what 
she  made.  I  was  charmed  by  her  vivacity,  acuteness,  frank 
ness  and  spirit,  and  really  felt  that  the  older  persons  at  the 
other  end  of  the  drawing-room  were  talking  common-places 
compared  with  Millie's  utterances.  We  conversed  a  long  time 
upon  many  things  ;  and  what  impressed  me  most,  perhaps,  was 
that  she  was  living  the  life  of  a  woman  and  thinking  the 
thoughts  of  a  woman — incompletely,  of  course,  and  unrecog 
nized  by  her  own  family  ! 

When  we  were  called  to  tea,  she  rose  up  quickly  and  whis 
pered  in  my  ear :  "I  like  to  talk  with  you."  As  she  came 
around  the  end  of  the  ottoman  I  offered  her  my  arm,  in  the 
manner  with  which  my  school  habits  had  familiarized  me.  She 
took  it  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  and  put  on  the  air  of  a 
grand  lady. 

"  Why  this  is  like  a  book,  isn't  it?"  said  she.  Then  she 
pressed  my  arm,  and  said  :  "  notice  Aunt  Flick,  please." 

Aunt  Flick  had  seen  us  from  the  start,  and  stood  with  ele 
vated  nostrils.  The  sight  was  one  which  evidently  excited  her 
beyond  the  power  of  expression.  She  could  do  nothing  but 
sniff  as  we  approached  her.  I  saw  a  merry  twinkle  in  Mr. 
Bradford's  eyes,  and  noticed  that  as  he  had  Claire  on  his  arm, 
and  Henry  was  leading  out  Mrs.  Bradford,  Aunt  Flick  was  left 


138  Arthur  Bonnie  as  tie. 

alone.  Without  a  moment's  thought,  I  walked  with  Millie 
straight  to  her,  and  offered  her  my  other  arm. 

Aunt  Flick  was  thunder-struck,  and  at  first  could  only  say : 
"Well!  well!  well!"  with  long  pauses  between.  Then  she 
found  strength  to  say  :  "  For  all  the  world  like  a  pair  of  young 
monkeys  !  No,  I  thank  you  ;  when  I  want  a  cane  I  won't 
choose  a  corn-stalk.  I've  walked  alone  in  the  world  so  far,  and 
I  think  I  can  do  it  the  rest  of  the  way." 

So  Aunt  Flick  followed  us  out,  less  vexed  than  amused,  I  am 
sure. 

There  are  two  things  which,  during  all  my  life,  have  been 
more  suggestive  to  me  of  home  comforts  and  home  delights 
than  any  others,  viz.  :  A  blazing  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the 
odor  of  fresh  toast.  I  found  both  in  Mrs.  Bradford's  supper- 
room,  for  a  red-cheeked  lass  with  an  old-fashioned  toasting- 
jack  in  her  hand  was  browning  the  whitest  bread  before  our 
eyes,  and  preparing  to  bear  it  hot  to  our  plates.  The  subtle 
odor  had  reached  me  first  in  the  far  corner  of  the  drawing-room, 
and  had  grown  more  stimulating  to  appetite  and  the  sense  of 
social  and  home  comfort  as  I  approached  its  source. 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  the  center  and  symbol  of  the 
family  life.  When  the  fire  in  a  house  goes  out,  it  is  because 
the  life  has  gone  out.  Somewhere  in  every  house  it  burns,  and 
burns,  in  constant  service ;  and  every  chimney  that  sends  its 
incense  heavenward  speaks  of  an  altar  inscribed  to  Love  and 
Home.  And  when  it  ceases  to  burn,  it  is  because  the  altar  is 
forsaken.  Bread  is  the  symbol  of  that  beautiful  ministry  of 
God  to  human  sustenance,  which,  properly  apprehended,  trans 
forms  the  homeliest  meal  into  a  sacrament.  What  wonder, 
then,  that  when  the  bread  of  life  and  the  fire  on  the  hearth 
meet,  they  should  interpret  and  reveal  each  other  in  an  odor 
sweeter  than  violets — an  odor  so  subtle  and  suggestive  that 
the  heart  breathes  it  rather  than  the  sense  ! 

This  is  all  stuff  and  sentiment,  I  suppose  ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  the  scent  of  toast  has  reached  my  nostrils  since  that 
evening  without  recalling  that  scene  of  charming  domestic  life 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  139 

and  comfort.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  world  were  in  that  room 
— and,  indeed,  it  was  all  there — all  that,  for  the  hour,  we  could 
appropriate. 

As  we  took  our  seats  at  the  table,  I  found  myself  by  the  side 
of  Millie  and  opposite  to  Aunt  Flick.  Then  began  on  the 
part  of  the  latter  personage,  a  pantomimic  lecture  to  her  niece. 
First  she  straightened  herself  in  her  chair,  throwing  out  her 
chest  and  holding  in  her  chin — a  performance  which  Millie 
imitated.  Then  she  executed  the  motion  of  putting  some 
stray  hair  behind  her  ear.  Millie  did  the  same.  Then  she 
tucked  an  imaginary  napkin  into  her  neck.  Millie  obeyed 
the  direction  thus  conveyed.  Then  she  examined  her  knife, 
and  finding  that  it  did  not  suit  her,  sent  it  away  and  received 
one  that  did. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  Bradford  had  begun  to  dispense  the 
hospitalities  of  the  table.  She  was  very  cheerful ;  indeed,  she 
was  so  happy  herself  that  she  overflowed  with  assiduities  that 
ran  far  into  superfluities.  She  was  afraid  the  toast  was  not 
hot,  or  that  the  tea  was  not  sweet  enough,  or  that  she  had  for 
gotten  the  sugar  altogether,  or  that  everybody  was  not  prop 
erly  waited  upon  and  supplied.  I  could  see  that  all  this 
rasped  Aunt  Flick  to  desperation.  The  sniffs,  which  were 
light  at  first,  grew  more  impatient,  and  after  Mrs.  Bradford  had 
urged  half  a  dozen  things  upon  me  that  I  did  not  want,  and 
was  obliged  to  decline,  the  fiery  spinster  burst  out  with  : 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  read  the  Declaration  of  Independence  ? 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  repeat  the  Ten  Commandments? 
Wouldn't  you  like  a  yard  of  calico?  Do  have  a  spoon  to  eat 
your  toast  with  ?  Just  a  trifle  more  salt  in  your  tea,  please  ?  " 

All  this  was  delivered  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  and 
with  a  rapidity  that  was  fairly  bewildering.  Poor  Millie  was 
overcome  by  the  comical  aspect  of  the  matter,  and  broke  out 
into  an  irrepressible  laugh,  which  was  so  hearty  that  it  became 
contagious,  and  all  of  us  laughed  together  except  Aunt  Flick, 
who  devoted  herself  to  her  supper  with  imperturbable  gravity. 

"  Why,  Flick,  dear ! "  was  all  that  Mrs.  Bradford  could  say 


140  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

to  this  outburst  of  scornful  criticism  upon  her  well-meant  cour 
tesies. 

Just  as  we  were  recovering  from  our  merriment,  there  was  a 
loud  knock  at  the  street  door.  The  girl  with  the  toasting-jack 
dropped  her  implement  to  answer  the  unwelcome  summons. 
We  all  involuntarily  listened,  and  learned  from  his  voice  that 
the  intruder  was  a  man.  We  heard  him  enter  the  drawing- 
room,  and  then  the  girl  came  in  and  said  that  Mr.  Grimshaw 
had  called  upon  the  family.  In  the  general  confusion  that  fol 
lowed  the  announcement,  Millie  leaned  over  to  me  and  said  : 
"  It's  the  very  man  who  used  to  pray  for  Aunt  Flick." 

Mr.  Bradford,  of  course,  brought  him  to  the  tea-table  at 
once,  where  room  was  made  for  him  by  the  side  of  Aunt  Flick, 
and  a  plate  laid.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  swallow  a  cup 
of  hot  tea  almost  at  a  gulp,  and  to  send  back  the  empty  vessel 
to  be  refilled.  Then  he  spread  with  butter  a  whole  piece  of 
toast,  which  disappeared  in  a  wonderfully  brief  space  of  time. 
Until  his  hunger  was  appeased  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to 
talk,  replying  to  such  questions  as  were  propounded  to  him 
concerning  himself  and  his  family  in  monosyllables. 

Rev.  Mr.  Grimshaw  was  the  minister  of  a  struggling  Congre 
gational  church  in  Bradford.  He  had  been  hard  at  work  for 
half  a  dozen  years  with  indifferent  success,  waiting  for  some 
manifestation  of  the  Master  which  would  show  him  that  his 
service  and  sacrifice  had  been  accepted.  I  had  heard  him 
preach  at  different  times  during  my  vacation  visits,  though  Mrs. 
Sanderson  did  not  attend  upon  his  ministry ;  and  he  had  always 
impressed  me  as  a  man  who  was  running  some  sort  of  a 
machine.  He  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  "  the  plan  of  sal 
vation  "  and  the  doctrines  covered  by  his  creed.  I  cannot 
aver  that  he  ever  interested  me.  Indeed,  I  may  say  that  he 
always  confused  me.  Religion,  as  it  had  been  presented  to 
my  mind,  had  been  a  simple  thing — so  simple  that  a  child 
might  understand  it.  My  Father  in  Heaven  loved  me  ;  Jesus 
Christ  had  died  for  me.  Loving  both,  trusting  both,  and  serv 
ing  both  by  worship,  and  by  affectionate  and  helpful  good- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  141 

will  toward  all  around  me  was  religion,  as  I  had  learned  it ; 
and  I  never  came  from  hearing  one  of  Mr.  Grimshaw's  ser 
mons  without  finding  it  difficult  to  get  back  upon  rny  simple 
ground  of  faith.  Religion,  as  he  preached  it,  was  such  a  tre 
mendous  and  such  a  mysterious  thing  in  its  beginnings  ;  it  in 
volved  such  a  complicated  structure  of  belief;  it  divided  God 
into  such  opposing  forces  of  justice  and  mercy ;  it  depended 
upon  such  awful  processes  of  feeling ;  it  was  so  much  the  pro 
duct  of  a  profoundly  ingenious  scheme,  that  his  sermons  always 
puzzled  me. 

As  he  sat  before  me  that  evening,  pale-faced  and  thin,  with 
his  intense,  earnest  eyes  and  solemn  bearing  and  self-crucified 
expression,  I  could  not  doubt  his  purity  or  his  sincerity.  There 
was  something  in  him  that  awoke  my  respect  and  my  sympathy. 

Our  first  talk  touched  only  common-places,  but  as  the  meal 
drew  toward  its  close  he  ingeniously  led  the  conversation  into 
religious  channels. 

"  There  is  a  very  tender  and  solemn  state  of  feeling  in  the 
church,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw,  "and  a  great  deal  of  self-examin 
ation  and  prayer.  The  careless  are  beginning  to  be  thought 
ful,  and  the  backsliders  are  returning  to  their  first  love.  1  most 
devoutly  trust  that  we  are  going  to  have  a  season  of  refresh 
ment.  It  is  a  time  when  all  those  who  have  named  the  name 
of  the  Lord  should  make  themselves  ready  for  His  coming." 

Aunt  Flick  started  from  her  chair  exactly  as  if  she  were 
about  to  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak  ;  and  I  think  that  was  really 
her  impulse  ;  but  she  sat  down  again  and  listened  intently. 

I  could  not  fail  to  see  that  this  turn  in  the  conversation  was 
not  relished  by  Mr.  Bradford ;  but  Mrs.  Bradford  and  Aunt 
Flick  were  interested,  and  1  noticed  an  excited  look  upon  the 
faces  of  both  Henry  and  Claire. 

Mrs.  Bradford,  in  her  simplicity,  made  a  most  natural  re 
sponse  to  the  minister's  communication  in  the  words  :  "  You 
must  be  exceedingly  delighted,  Mr.  Grimshaw."  She  said  this 
very  sweetly,  and  with  her  cheerful  smile  making  her  whole 
countenance  light. 


142  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Jane  Bradford  ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Flick,  "  I  believe  you 
would  smile  if  anybody  were  to  tell  you  the  judgment-day  had 
come." 

Mrs.  Bradford  did  not  say  this  time  :  "  Why,  Flick,  dear  ! " 
but  she  said  with  great  tenderness  :  "  When  I  remember  who 
is  to  judge  me,  and  to  whom  I  have  committed  myself,  I  think 
I  should." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  an)'body  can  make  light  of  such  aw 
ful  things,"  responded  Aunt  Flick. 

"  Of  course,  I  am  rejoiced,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw,  at  last  get 
ting  his  chance  to  speak,  "but  my  joy  is  tempered  by  the 
great  responsibility  that  rests  upon  me,  and  by  a  sense  of  the 
lost  condition  of  the  multitudes  around  me." 

"In  reality,"  Mr.  Bradford  broke  in,  "you  don't  feel  quite 
so  much  like  singing  as  the  angels  did  when  the  Saviour  came 
to  redeem  the  world.  But  then,  they  probably  had  no  such 
sense  of  responsibility  as  you  have.  Perhaps  they  didn't  appre 
ciate  the  situation.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me,  however,  as 
if  that  which  would  set  an  angel  singing — a  being  who  ought 
to  see  a  little  further  forward  and  backward  than  we  can,  and 
a  little  deeper  down  and  higher  up — ought  to  set  men  and 
women  singing.  I  confess  that  I  don't  understand  the  long 
faces  and  the  superstitious  solemnities  of  what  is  called  a  sea 
son  of  refreshment.  If  the  Lord  is  with  his  own,  they  ought 
to  be  glad  and  give  him  such  a  greeting  as  will  induce  him  to 
remain.  I  really  do  not  wonder  that  he  flies  from  many  con 
gregations  that  I  have  seen,  or  that  he  seems  to  resist  their  en 
treaties  that  he  will  stay.  Half  the  prayers  that  I  hear  sound 
like  abject  bcseechings  for  the  presence  of  One  who  is  very 
far  off,  and  very  unwilling  to  come." 

This  free  expression  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Bradford  would  have 
surprised  me  had  I  not  just  learned  that  the  minister  had  at  one 
time  been  a  member  of  his  family,  with  whom  he  had  been  on 
familiar  terms  ;  yet  I  knew  that  he  did  not  profess  to  be  a  relig 
ious  man,  and  that  his  view  of  the  matter,  whether  sound  or 
otherwise,  was  from  the  outside.  There  was  a  subtle  touch  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  143 

satire  in  his  words,  too,  that  did  not  altogether  please  me  ;  but 
I  did  not  see  what  reply  could  be  made  to  it. 

Aunt  Flick  was  evidently  somewhat  afraid  of  Mr.  Bradford, 
and  simply  said :  "  I  hope  you  will  remember  that  your  child  is 
present." 

"Yes,  I  do  remember  it,"  said  he,  "and  what  I  say  about  it 
is  as  much  for  her  ears  as  for  anybody's.  And  I  remember 
too,  that,  during  all  my  boyhood,  I  was  made  afraid  of  religion. 
I  wish  to  save  her,  if  I  can,  from  such  a  curse.  I  have  read 
that  when  the  Saviour  was  upon  the  earth,  he  took  little  chil 
dren  in  His  arms  and  blessed  them,  and  went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  of  such  was  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  If  He  were  to  come 
to  the  earth  again,  He  would  be  as  apt  to  take  my  child  upon 
His  knee  as  any  man's  and  bless  her,  and  repeat  over  her  the 
same  words  ;  and  if  He  manifests  His  presence  among  us  in  any 
way  I  do  not  wish  to  have  her  kept  away  from  Him  by  the  im 
pression  that  there  is  something  awful  in  the  fact  that  He  is 
here.  My  God !  if  I  could  believe  that  the  Lord  of  Heaven 
and  Earth  were  really  in  Bradford,  with  a  dispensation  of  faith 
and  mercy  and  love  in  His  hands  for  me  and  mine,  do  you  think 
I  would  groan  and  look  gloomy  over  it?  Why,  I  couldn't  eat ; 
I  couldn't  sleep  ;  I  couldn't  refrain  fromx shouting  and  singing." 

Mr.  Grimshaw  was  evidently  touched  and  impressed  by  Mr. 
Bradford's  exhibition  of  strong  feeling,  and  said  in  a  calm,  judi 
cial  way  that  it  was  impossible  that  one  outside  of  the  church 
should  comprehend  and  appreciate  the  feelings  that  exercised 
him  and  the  church  generally.  The  welfare  of  the  unconverted 
depended  so  much  upon  a  revival  of  religion  within  the  church 
— it  brought  such  tremendous  responsibilities  and  such  great 
duties — that  Christian  men  and  women  were  weighed  down  with 
solemnity.  The  issues  of  eternal  life  and  death  were  tremen 
dous  issues.  Even  if  the  angels  sang,  Jesus  suffered  in  the 
garden,  and  bore  the  cross  on  Calvary;  and  Christians  who  are 
worthy  must  suffer  and  bear  the  cross  also. 

"  Mr.  Grimshaw,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  still  earnest  and  excited, 
"I  have  heard  from  your  own  lips  that  the  fact  that  Christ  was 


144  Arthur  Bounicastle. 

to  suffer  and  bear  the  cross  was  at  least  a  part  of  the  inspiration 
of  the  song  which  the  angels  sang.  He  suffered  and  bore  the 
cross  that  men  might  not  suffer.  That  is  one  of  the  essential 
parts  of  your  creed.  He  suffered  that  He  might  give  peace  to 
the  world,  and  bring  life  and  immortality  to  light.  You  have 
taught  me  'that  He  did  not  come  to  torment  the  world,  but  to 
save  it.  The  religion  which  Christendom  holds  in  theory  is  a 
religion  of  unbounded  peace  and  joy ;  that  which  it  holds  in  fact 
is  one  of  torture  and  gloom  ;  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
if  the  Christian  world  were  a  peaceful  and  joyous  world,  taking 
all  the  good  things  of  this  life  in  gratitude  and  gladness,  while 
holding  itself  pure  from  its  corruptions,  and  not  only  not  fear 
ing  death,  but  looking  forward  with  unwavering  faith  and  hope 
to  another  and  a  happier  life  beyond,  the  revivals  which  it 
struggles  for  would  be  perpetual,  and  the  millennium  which  it 
prays  for  would  come." 

Then  Mr.  Bradford,  who  sat  near  enough  to  touch  me,  laid  his 
hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  said  :  "  Boy,  look  at  your  father, 
if  you  wish  to  know  what  my  ideal  of  a  Christian  is, — a  man  of 
cheerfulness,  trust  and  hope,  under  discouragements  that  would 
kill  me.  Such  examples  save  me  from  utter  infidelity  and 
despair,  and,  thank  God,  I  have  one  such  in  my  own  home." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  turned  them  upon  his  wife, 
who  sat  watching  him  with  intense  sympathy  and  affection, 
while  he  frankly  poured  out  his  heart  and  thought. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  minister,  "  that  we  should  get  no  nearer 
together  in  the  discussion  of  this  question  than  we  did  when 
we  were  more  in  one  another's  company,  and  perhaps  it  would 
be  well  not  to  pursue  it.  You  undoubtedly  see  the  truth  in  a 
single  aspect,  Mr.  Bradford;  and  you  will  pardon  me  for  say 
ing  that  you  cannot  see  it  in  the  aspects  which  it  presents  to 
me.  I  came  in,  partly  to  let  you  and  your  family  know  of  our 
plans,  and  to  beg  you  to  attend  our  services  faithfully.  I 
hope  these  young  people,  too,  will  not  fail  to  put  themselves  in 
the  way  of  religious  influence.  Now  is  their  time.  To-morrow 
or  next  year  it  may  be  too  late.  Many  a  poor  soul  is  obliged 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  145 

to  take  up  the  lament  after  every  revival :  '  The  harvest  is  past, 
the  summer  is  ended,  and  my  soul  is  not  saved.'  Before  the 
spirit  takes  its  flight,  all  these  precious  youth  ought  to  be 
gathered  into  the  kingdom." 

I  could  not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  this  closing  utterance,  for 
it  was  earnest  and  tearful.  In  truth,  I  was  deeply  moved  by  it  ; 
for  while  Mr.  Bradford  carried  my  judgment  and  opened  before 
me  a  beautiful  life,  I  had  always  entertained  great  reverence  for 
ministers,  and  found  Mr.  Grimshaw's  views  and  feelings  most 
in  consonance  with  those  I  had  been  used  to  hear  proclaimed 
from  the  pulpit. 

The  fact  that  a  revival  was  in  progress  in  some  of  the 
churches  of  the  town,  had  already  come  to  my  ears. 

I  had  seen  throngs  pouring  into  or  coming  out  of  church- 
doors  and  lecture-rooms  during  other  days  than  Sunday ;  and 
a  vague  uneasiness  had  possessed  me  for  several  weeks.  A 
cloud  had  arisen  upon  my  life.  I  may  even  confess  that  my 
heart  had  rebelled  in  secret  against  an  influence  which  promised 
to  interfere  with  the  social  pleasures  and  the  progress  in  study 
which  1  had  anticipated  for  the  winter.  The  cloud  came  nearer 
to  me  now,  and  in  Mr.  Grimshaw's  presence  quite  overshadowed 
me.  Was  I  moved  by  sympathy  ?  Was  I  moved  by  the  spirit 
of  the  Almighty  ?  Was  superstitious  fear  at  the  bottom  of  it 
all  ?  Whatever  it  was,  my  soul  had  crossed  the  line  of  bhat 
circle  of  passion  and  experience  in  whose  center  a  great  mul 
titude  were  groping  and  crying  in  the  darkness,  and  striving  to 
get  a  vision  of  the  Father's  face.  I  realized  the  fact  then  and 
there.  I  felt  that  a  crisis  in  my  life  was  approaching. 

On  Aunt  Flick's  face  there  came  a  look  of  rigid  determina 
tion.  She  was  entirely  ready  to  work,  and  inquired  of  Mr. 
Grimshaw  what  his  plans  were. 

"  I  have  felt,"  said  he,  "  that  the  labor  and  responsibility  are 
too  great  for  me  to  bear  alone,  and,  after  a  consultation  with 
our  principal  men,  have  concluded  to  send  for  Mr.  Bedlow,  the 
evangelist,  to  assist  me." 

"  Mr.  Grimshaw,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  "  I  suppose  it  is  none  of 
7 


146  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

my  business,  but  I  am  sorry  you  have  done  this.  I  have  no  faith 
in  the  man  or  his  methods.  Mrs.  Bradford  and  her  sister  will 
attend  his  preaching  if  they  choose  :  I  am  not  afraid  that  they 
will  be  harmed ;  but  I  decidedly  refuse  to  have  this  child  of 
mine  subjected  to  his  processes.  Why  parents  will  consent  to 
yield  their  children  to  the  spiritual  manipulation  of  strangers  I 
cannot  conceive." 

Mr.  Grimshaw  smiled  sadly,  and  said  :  "You  assume  a  grave 
responsibility,  Mr.  Bradford." 

"  /assume  a  grave  responsibility  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bradford  : 
"  I  had  the  impression  that  I  relieved  you  of  one.  No,  leave 
the  child  alone.  She  is  safe  with  her  mother ;  and  no  such  man 
as  Mr.  Bedlow  shall  have  the  handling  of  her  sensibilities." 

We  had  sat  a  long  time  at  the  tea-table,  and  as  we  rose  and 
adjourned  to  the  drawing-room  Mr.  Grimshaw  took  sudden  leave 
on  the  plea  that  he  had  devoted  the  evening  to  many  other  calls 
yet  to  be  made.  He  was  very  solemn  in  his  leave-taking,  and 
for  some  time  after  he  left  we  sat  in  silence.  Then  Mr.  Brad 
ford  rose  and  paced  the  drawing-room  back  and  forth,  his  coun 
tenance  full  of  perplexity  and  pain.  I  could  see  plainly  that  a 
storm  of  utterance  was  gathering,  but  whether  it  would  burst  in 
thunder  and  torrent,  or  open  with  strong  and  healing  rain,  was 
doubtful. 

At  length  he  paused,  and  said  :  "  I  suppose  that  as  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  the  father  of  all  these  young  people  I  ought  to  say 
frankly  what  I  feel  in  regard  to  this  subject.  I  do  not  believe 
it  is  right  for  me  to  shut  my  mouth  tight  upon  my  convictions. 
My  own  measure  of  faith  is  small.  I  wish  to  God  it  were 
larger,  and  I  am  encouraged  to  believe  that  it  is  slowly  strength 
ening.  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  I  lack  peace  in  the  exact 
proportion  that  I  lack  faith  ;  and  so  does  every  man,  no  matter 
how  much  he  may  boast.  Faith  is  the  natural  and  only  healthy 
attitude  of  the  soul.  I  would  go  through  anything  to  win  it, 
but  such  men  as  Grimshaw  and  Bedlow  cannot  help  me.  They 
simply  distress  and  disgust  me.  Their  whole  conception  of 
Christianity  is  cramped  and  mean,  and  their  methods  of  opera- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  147 

^ion  are  unwise  and  unworthy.  I  know  how  Mr.  Grimshaw 
feels :  he  knows  that  revivals  are  in  progress  in  the  other 
churches,  and  sees  that  his  own  congregation  is  attracted  to 
their  meetings.  He  finds  it  impossible  to  keep  the  tide  from 
retiring  from  his  church,  and  feels  the  necessity  of  doing  some 
thing  extraordinary  to  make  it  one  of  the  centers  and  receivers 
of  the  new  influence.  He  has  been  at  work  faithfully,  in  his 
way,  for  years,  and  desires  to  see  the  harvest  which  he  has  been 
trying  to  rear  gathered  in.  So  he  sends  for  Bedlow.  Now  I 
know  all  about  these  Bedlow  revivals.  They  come  when  he 
comes,  and  they  go  when  he  goes.  His  mustard-seed  sprouts 
at  once,  and  grows  into  a  great  tree,  which  withers  and  dies  as 
soon  as  he  ceases  to  breathe  upon  it.  I  never  knew  an  instance 
in  which  a  church  that  had  been  raised  out  of  the  mire  by  his 
influence  did  not  sink  back  into  a  deeper  indifference  after  he 
had  left  it,  and  that  by  a  process  which  is  just  as  natural  as  it 
is  inevitable.  An  artificial  excitement  is  an  artificial  exhaus 
tion.  '  He  breaks  up  and  ruins  processes  of  religious  education 
that  otherwise  would  have  gone  on  to  perfection.  He  has  one 
process  for  the  imbruted,  the  ignorant,  the  vicious,  the  stolid, 
the  sensitive,  the  delicate,  the  weak  and  the  strong,  the  old 
and  the  young.  I  know  it  is  said  that  the  spirit  of  God  is  with 
him,  and  I  hope  it  is  ;  but  one  poor  man  like  him  does  not 
monopolize  the  spirit  of  God,  I  trust ;  nor  does  that  spirit  re 
fuse  to  stay  where  he  is  not.  No,  it  is  Bedlow — it's  all  Bedlow  ; 
and  the  fact  that  a  revival  got  up  under  his  influence  ceases 
when  he  retires,  proves  that  it  is  all  Bedlow,  and  accounts  for 
the  miserable  show  of  permanently  good  results." 

There  was  great  respect  for  Mr.  Bradford  in  his  own  house 
hold,  and  there  was  great  respect  for  him  in  the  hearts  of  the 
three  young  people  who  listened  to  him  as  comparative 
strangers  ;  and  when  he  stopped,  and  sank  into  an  arm-chair, 
looking  into  the  fire,  and  shading  his  face  with  his  two  hands, 
no  one  broke  the  silence.  Aunt  Flick  had  taken  to  her  corner 
and  her  knitting,  and  Mrs.  Bradford  sat  with  her  hands  on  her 
lap,  as  if  waiting  for  something  further. 


148  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

At  length  Mr.  Bradford  looked  up  with  a  smile,  and  regard^ 
ing  the  silent  group  before  him,  said  :  "upon  my  word,  we  are 
not  having  a  very  merry  evening." 

"  I  assure  you,"  responded  Henry,  "  that  I  have  enjoyed 
every  moment  of  it.  I  could  hear  you  talk  all  night." 

"  So  could  I,"  added  Claire. 

I  could  not  say  a  word.  The  eyes  of  the  minister  still 
haunted  me  :  the  spell  of  a  new  influence  was  upon  me.  What 
Mr.  Bradford  had  said  about  Mr.  Bedlow  only  increased  my 
desire  to  hear  him,  and  to  come  within  the  reach  of  his  power. 

"Well,  children,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  "for  you  will  let  me 
call  you  such,  I  know,  I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  say  to 
you,  and  that  is  to  stand  by  your  Christian  fathers  and  mothers, 
and  take  their  faith  just  as  it  is.  Not  one  of  you  is  old  enough 
to  decide  upon  the  articles  of  a  creed,  but  almost  any  faith  is 
good  enough  to  hold  up  a  Christian  character.  Don't  bother 
yourselves  voluntarily  with  questions.  A  living  vine  grows 
just  as  well  on  a  rough  trellis  of  simple  branches  as  on  the 
smoothest  piece  of  ornamental  work  that  can  be  made.  If  you 
ever  wish  to  change  the  trellis  when  you  get  old  enough  to  do 
it,  be  careful  not  to  ruin  the  vine,  that  is  all.  I  am  trying  to 
keep  my  vine  alive  around  a  trellis  that  is  gone  to  wreck.  I  be 
lieve  in  God  and  His  Son,  and  I  believe  that  there  is  one  thing 
which  God  delights  in  more  than  in  all  else,  and  that  is  Chris 
tian  character.  I  hold  to  the  first  and  strive  for  the  last, 
though  I  am  looked  upon  as  little  better  than  an  infidel  by  all 
but  one." 

A  thrill,  sympathetically  felt  by  us  all,  and  visible  in  a  blush 
and  eyes  suffused,  ran  through  the  dear  little  Avoman  seated  at 
his  side,  and  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  trustful  smile 
of  response. 

After  this  it  was  difficult  to  engage  in  light  conversation. 
We  were  questioned  in  regard  to  our  past  experiences  and 
future  plans.  We  looked  over  volumes  of  pictures  and  a  cab 
inet  of  curiosities,  and  Millie  amused  us  by  reading,  and  at  an 
early  hour  we  rose  to  go  home.  Millie  went  to  her  corner  as 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  149 

soon  as  we  broke  up,  giving  me  a  look  as  she  passed  me.  I 
took  the  hint  and  followed  her. 

"Shall  you  go  to  hear  Mr.  Bedlow?"  she  inquired. 

"  I  think  I  shall,"  I  answered. 

"  I  knew  you  would.  I  should  like  to  go  with  you,  but  you 
know  I  can't.  Will  you  tell  me  what  he  is  like,  and  all  about 
it?" 

"  Yes." 

I  pressed  her  hand  and  bade  her  "good-night." 

Mr.  Bradford  parted  with  us  at  the  door  with  pleasant  and 
courteous  words,  and  told  Henry  that  he  must  regard  the  house 
as  his  home,  and  assured  him  that  he  would  always  find  a  wel 
come  there.  I  had  noticed  during  the  evening  a  peculiarly  affec 
tionate  familiarity  in  his  tone  and  bearing  toward  the  young  man. 
I  could  not  but  notice  that  he  treated  him  with  more  consider 
ation  than  he  treated  me.  I  went  away  feeling  that  there  were 
confidences  between  them,  and  suffered  the  suspicion  to  make 
me  uneasy. 

I  walked  home  with  Henry  and  Claire,  and  we  talked  over 
the  affairs  of  the  evening  together.  Both  declared  their  adhe 
sion  to  Mr.  Bradford's  views,  and  I,  in  my  assumed  pride  of 
independent  opinion,  dissented.  I  proposed  to  see  for  myself. 
I  would  listen  to  Mr.  Bedlow's  preaching.  I  was  not  afraid  of 
being  harmed,  and,  indeed,  I  should  not  dare  to  stay  away 
from  him. 

As  I  walked  to  The  Mansion,  I  found  my  nerves  excited  in  a 
strange  degree.  The  way  was  full  of  shadows.  I  started  at 
every  noise.  It  was  as  if  the  spiritual  world  were  dropped 
down  around  me,  and  I  were  touched  by  invisible  wings,  and 
moved  by  mysterious  influences.  The  stars  shivered  in  their 
high  places,  the  night-wind  swept  by  me  as  if  it  were  a  weird 
power  of  evil,  and  I  seemed  to  be  smitten  through  heart  and 
brain  by  a  nameless  fear.  As  I  kneeled  in  my  accustomed 
way  at  my  bed  I  lost  my  confidence.  I  could  not  recall  my 
usual  words  or  frame  new  ones.  I  lingered  on  my  knees  like 
one  crushed  and  benumbed.  What  it  all  meant  I  could  not 


150  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

tell.  I  only  knew  that  feelings  and  influences  which  long  had 
been  gathering  in  me  were  assuming  the  predominance,  and 
that  I  was  entering  upon  a  new  phase  of  experience.  At  last 
I  went  to  bed,  and  passed  a  night  crowded  with  strange  dreams 
and  dreary  passages  of  unrefreshing  slumber. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I    PASS   THROUGH   A  TERRIBLE    TEMPEST   INTO   THE    SUNLIGHT. 

I  HAD  never  arrived  at  any  definite  comprehension  of  Mrs. 
Sanderson"^  ideas  of  religion.  Whether  she  was  religious  in 
any  worthy  sense  I  do  not  know,  even  to-day.  The  respect 
which  she  entertained  for  the  clergy  was  a  sentiment  which  she 
shared  with  New  Englanders  generally.  She  was  rather  gener 
ous  than  otherwise  in  her  contributions  to  their  support,  yet 
the  most  I  could  make  of  her  views  and  opinions  was  that  re 
ligion  and  its  institutions  were  favorable  to  the  public  order 
and  security,  and  were,  therefore,  to  be  patronized  and  perma 
nently  sustained.  I  never  should  have  thought  of  going  to  her 
for  spiritual  counsel,  yet  I  had  learned  in  some  way  that  she 
thought  religion  was  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man,  because  it 
would  save  him  from  dissipation  and  from  a  great  many  dangers 
to  which  young  men  are  exposed.  The  whole  subject  seemed 
to  be  regarded  by  her  in  an  economical  or  prudential  aspect. 

I  met  her  on  the  morning  following  my  visit  at  the  Bradfords, 
in  the  breakfast-room.  She  was  cheery  and  expectant,  for  she 
always  found  me  talkative,  and  was  prepared  to  hear  the  full 
story  of  the  previous  evening.  That  I  was  obliged  to  tell  her 
that  Henry  was  there  with  my  sister,  embarrassed  me  much, 
for,  beyond  the  fact  that  she  disliked  Henry  intensely,  there 
was  the  further  fact — most  offensive  to  her — that  Mr.  Bradford 
was  socially  patronizing  the  poor,  and  bringing  me,  her  protege, 
into  association  with  them.  Here  was  where  my  chain  galled 
me,  and  made  me  realize  my  slavery.  I  saw  the  thrill  of 
anger  that  shot  through  her  face,  and  recognized  the  effort  she 
made  to  control  her  words.  She  did  not  speak  at  first,  and 
not  until  she  felt  perfectly  sure  of  self-control  did  she  say  : 
"  Mr.  Bradford  is  very  unwise.  He  inflicts  a  great  wrong  upon 


152  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

young  people  without  position  or  expectations,  when  he  under 
takes  to  raise  them  to  his  own  social  level.  How  he  could  do 
such  a  thing  as  he  did  last  night  is  more  than  I  can  imagine, 
unless  he  wishes  either  to  humiliate  you  or  offend  me." 

For  that  one  moment  how  1  longed  to  pour  out  my  love  for 
Henry  and  Claire,  and  to  speak  my  sense  of  justice  in  the  vindi 
cation  of  Mr.  Bradford!  It  was  terrible  to  sit  still  and  hold 
my  tongue  while  the  ties  of  blood  and  friendship  were  con 
temned,  and  the  motives  of  my  hospitable  host  were  miscon 
strued  so  cruelly.  Yet  I  could  not  open  my  lips.  I  dreaded  a 
collision  with  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  serpent,  or  a  furnace  of 
fire,  or  a  hedge  of  thowis.  Ay,  I  was  mean  enough  to  explain 
that  I  had  no  expectation  of  meeting  either  Henry  or  my  sister 
there  ;  and  she  was  adroit  enough  to  reply  that  she  was  at  least 
sure  of  that  without  my  saying  so. 

Then  I  talked  fully  of  Mr.  Grimshaw's  call,  and  gave  such 
details  of  the  conversation  that  occurred  as  I  could  without 
making  Mr.  Bradford  too  prominent. 

"  So  Mr.  Bradford  doesn't  like  Mr.  Bedlow,"  she  remarked ; 
"  but  Mr.  Bradford  is  a  trifle  whimsical  in  his  likes  and  dislikes. 
I'm  sure  I've  always  heard  Mr.  Bedlow  well  spoken  of.  He 
has  the  credit  of  having  done  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  if  he  is 
coming  here,  Arthur,  I  think  you  cannot  do  better  than  to  go 
and  hear  him  for  yourself." 

Like  a  Hash  of  light  there  passed  through  my  mind  the 
thought  that  Providence  had  not  only  thus  opened  the  way  for 
me,  but  with  an  imperative  finger  had  directed  me  to  walk  in  it. 
God  had  made  the  wrath  of  woman  to  praise  Him,  and  the  re 
mainder  He  had  restrained.  Imagining  myself  to  be  thus  di 
rected,  I  should  not  have  dared  to  avoid  Mr.  Bedlow's  preach 
ing.  The  whole  interview  with  Mr.  Grimshaw,  the  fact  that, 
contrary  to  my  wont,  I  had  not  found  myself  in  sympathy  with 
my  old  friend,  Mr.  Bradford,  and  the  strange  and  unlooked-for 
result  of  my  conversation  with  Mrs.  Sanderson,  shaped  them 
selves  into  a  divine  mandate  to  whose  authority  my  spirit  bowed 
in  ready  obedience. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  153 

Mr.  Bedlow  made  his  appearance  in  Mr.  Grimshaw's  pulpit  on 
the  following  Sunday  ;  and  a  great  throng  of  excited  and  ex 
pectant  people,  attracted  by  the  notoriety  of  the  preacher,  and 
moved  by  the  influences  of  the  time,  were  in  attendance.  The 
hush  of  solemnity  that  pervaded  the  assembly  when  these  two 
men  entered  the  desk  impressed  me  deeply.  My  spirit  was 
thrilled  with  strange  apprehension.  My  emotional  nature  was 
in  chaos  ;  and  such  crystallizations  of  opinion,  thought,  and 
feeling  as  had  taken  place  in  me  during  a  life-long  course  of 
religious  nurture  and  education  were  broken  up.  Outside  of 
the  church,  and  entirely  lacking  that  dramatic  experience  of 
conversion  and  regeneration  which  all  around  me  regarded  as 
the  only  true  beginning  of  a  religious  life,  my  whole  soul  lay 
open,  quick  and  quivering,  to  the  influences  of  the  hour,  and 
the  words  which  soon  fell  upon  it. 

The  pastor  conducted  the  opening  services,  and  I  had  never 
seen  him  in  such  a  mood.  Inspired  by  the  presence  of  an  im 
mense  congregation  and  by  the  spirit  of  the  time,  he  rose  en 
tirely  out  of  the  mechanisms  of  his  theology  and  his  stereotyped 
forms  of  expression,  and  poured  out  the  burden  of  his  soul  in 
a  prayer  that  melted  every  heart  before  him.  Deprecating  the 
judgments  of  the  Most  High  on  the  coldness  and  worldliness  of 
the  church  ;  beseeching  the  Spirit  of  all  Grace  to  come  and 
work  its  own  great  miracles  upon  those  who  loved  the  Master, 
moving  them  to  penitence,  self-sacrifice,  humility  and  prayer ; 
entreating  that  Spirit  to  plant  the  arrows  of  conviction  in  all 
unconverted  souls,  and  to  bring  a  great  multitude  of  these  into 
the  Kingdom — a  multitude  so  great  that  they  should  be  like 
doves  flocking  to  their  windows — he  prayed  like  a  man  inspired. 
His  voice  trembled  and  choked  with  emotion,  and  the  tears 
coursed  down  his  cheeks  unheeded.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  pause,  or  be  denied. 

Of  Mr.  Bedlow' s  sermon  that  followed  I  can  give  no  fitting 

idea.     After  a  severe  denunciation  of  the  coldness  of  the  church 

that  grieved  and  repelled  the  Spirit  of  God,  he  turned  to  those 

without  the  fold — to  the  unconverted  and  impenitent.     He  told 

7* 


154  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

us  that  God  was  angry  with  us  every  day,  that  every  imagination 
of  the  thoughts  of  our  hearts  was  only  evil  continually,  that  we 
were  exposed  every  moment  to  death  and  the  perdition  of  un 
godly  men,  and  that  it  was  our  duty  to  turn,  then  and  there,  from 
the  error  of  our  ways,  and  to  seek  and  secure  the  pardon  which  a 
pitying  Christ  extended  to  us — a  pardon  which  could  be  had 
for  the  taking.  Then  he  painted  with  wonderful  power  the  joy 
and  peace  that  follow  the  consciousness  of  sin  forgiven,  and  the 
glories  of  that  heaven  which  the  Saviour  had  gone  to  prepare 
for  those  who  love  Him. 

I  went  home  blind,  staggering,  almost  benumbed — with  the 
words  ringing  in  my  ears  that  it  had  been  my  duty  before  rising 
from  my  seat  to  give  myself  to  the  Saviour,  and  to  go  out  of 
the  door  rejoicing  in  the  possession  of  a  hope  which  should  be 
as  an  anchor  in  all  the  storms  of  my  life  ;  yet  I  did  not  know 
what  the  process  was.  I  was  sure  I  did  not  know.  I  had  not 
the  slightest  comprehension  of  what  was  required  of  me,  yet 
the  fact  did  not  save  me  from  the  impression  that  I  had  com 
mitted  a  great  sin.  I  went  to  my  room  and  tried  to  pray,  and 
spent  half  an  hour  of  such  helpless  and  pitiful  distress  as  I 
cannot  describe.  Then  there  arose  in  me  a  longing  for  com 
panionship.  I  could  not  unbosom  myself  to  Mrs.  Sanderson. 
Henry's  calm-  spirit  and  sympathetic  counsels  were  beyond  my 
reach.  Mr.  Bradford  was  not  in  the  church,  and  I  could  only 
think  of  my  father,  and  determine  that  I  would  see  him.  I  ate 
but  little  dinner,  made  no  conversation  with  Mrs.  Sanderson, 
and,  toward  night,  left  the  house  and  sought  my  father's  home. 

I  found  the  house  as  solemn  as  death.  All  the  family  save 
Claire  had  heard  Mr.  Bedlow,  and  my  mother  was  profoundly 
dejected.  A  cloud  rested  upon  my  brothers  and  sisters.  My 
father  apprehended  at  once  the  nature  of  my  errand,  and, 
by  what  seemed  to  be  a  mutual  impulse  and  understanding, 
we  passed  into  an  unoccupied  room  and  closed  the  door.  The 
moment  1  found  myself  alone  with  him  I  threw  my  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  bursting  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  weeping, 
exclaimed  :  "Oh,  father  !  father  !  what  shall  I  do  ?" 


ArtJiur  Bonnicastlc.  155 

For  years  I  had  not  come  to  him  with  a  trouble.  For  years 
I  had  not  reposed  in  him  a  single  heart-confidence,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  put  both  his  arms  affectionately  around 
me  and  embraced  me.  Minutes  passed  while  we  stood  thus. 
I  could  not  see  his  face,  for  my  own  was  bowed  upon  his  shoul 
der,  but  I  could  feel  his  heart-beats,  and  the  convulsions  of 
emotion  which  shook  him  in  every  fiber.  At  last  he  gently  put 
me  off,  led  me  to  a  seat,  and  sat  down  beside  me.  He  took 
my  hand,  but  he  could  not  speak. 

"  Oh,  father  !  what  shall  1  do  ?  "  I  exclaimed  again. 

"  Go  to  God,  my  boy,  and  repeat  the  same  words  to  him  with 
the  same  earnestness." 

"  But  he  is  angry  with  me,"  I  said,  "and  you  are  not.  You 
pity  me  and  love  me.  I  am  your  child.  You  cannot  help  be 
ing  sorry  for  me." 

"  You  are  his  child  too,  my  boy,  by  relations  a  thousand 
times  tenderer  and  more  significant  than  those  which  make  you 
mine.  He  loves  you  and  pities  you  more  than  I  can." 

"  But  I  don't  know  how  to  give  myself  to  him,"  I  said. 

" 1  have  had  the  impression  and  the  hope,"  my  father  re 
sponded,  "  that  you  had  already  given  yourself  to  him." 

"  Oh,  not  in  this  way  at  all,"  I  said. 

My  father  had  his  own  convictions,  but  he  was  almost  mor 
bidly  conscientious  in  all  his  dealings  with  the  souls  around 
him.  Fearful  of  meddling  with  that  which  the  Gracious  Spirit 
had  in  charge  and  under  influence,  and  modest  in  the  assertion 
of  views  which  might  possibly  weaken  the  hold  of  conviction 
upon  me  ;  feeling,  too,  that  he  did  not  know  me  well  enough 
to  direct  me.  and  fearful  that  he  might  arrest  a  process  which, 
perfected,  might  redeem  me,  he  simply  said  :  "  I  am  not  wise; 
let  us  pray  together,  that  we  may  be  led  aright." 

Then  he  kneeled  and  prayed  for  me.  Ah  !  how  the  blessed 
words  of  that  prayer  have  lingered  in  my  memory  !  Though 
not  immediately  fruitful  in  my  experience,  they  came  to  me 
long  years  after,  loaded  with  the  balm  of  healing.  "  Oh, 
Father  in  Heaven  !  "  he  said,  "  this  is  our  boy, — thy  child  and 


156  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

mine.  Thou  lovest  and  pitiest  him  more  than  1  can.  Help 
him  to  go  to  Thee  as  he  has  come  to  me,  and  to  say  in  perfect 
submission,  '  Oh,  Father,  what  shall  I  do  ! '  "  . 

I  went  home  at  last  somewhat  calmed,  because  I  had  had 
sympathy,  and,  for  a  few  moments,  had  leaned  upon  another 
nature  and  rested.  I  ate  little,  and,  as  soon  as  the  hour  ar 
rived,  departed  to  attend  the  evening  service,  previously  having 
asked  old  Jenks  to  attend  the  meeting  and  walk  home  with 
me,  for  I  was  afraid  to  return  alone. 

A  strange  and  gloomy  change  had  come  over  the  sky ;  and 
the  weather,  which  had  been  extremely  cold  for  a  week,  had 
grown  warm.  The  snow  under  my  feet  was  soft  and  yielding, 
and  already  little  rivulets  were  coursing  along  the  ruts  worn  by 
the  sleighs.  The  nerves  which  had  been  braced  by  the  tonic 
of  the  cold,  clear  air  were  relaxed,  and  with  the  uncertain  foot 
ing  of  the  streets  I  went  staggering  to  the  church. 

In  the  endeavor  now  to  analyze  my  feelings  I  find  it  impos 
sible  to  believe  that  I  was  convinced  that  my  life  had  been  one 
of  bold  and  intentional  sin.  A  considerable  part  of  my  pain, 
I  know,  arose  from  the  fact  that  I  could  not  realize  my  own 
sinfulness  as  it  had  been  represented  to  me.  I  despaired  be 
cause  I  could  not  despair.  I  was  distressed  because  I  could 
not  be  sufficiently  distressed.  There  was  one  sin,  however,  of 
which  I  had  a  terrified  consciousness,  viz.,  that  of  rejecting 
the  offer  of  mercy  which  had  been  made  to  me  in  the  morning, 
and  of  so  rejecting  it  as  to  be  in  danger  of  forever  grieving 
away  the  Spirit  of  God  which  I  believed  was  at  work  upon  my 
heart.  This  was  something  definite  and  dreadful,  though  I  felt 
perfectly  ignorant  of  the  exact  thing  required  of  me  and  impo 
tent  to  perform  it.  If  I  could  have  known  the  precise  nature 
of  the  surrender  demanded  of  me,  and  could  have  compre 
hended  the  effort  I  was  called  upon  to  make,  I  believe  I  should 
have  been  ready  for  both  ;  but  in  truth  I  had  been  so  mystified 
by  the  preacher,  so  puzzled  by  his  representation  of  the  mira 
cle  of  conversion,  which  he  made  to  appear  to  be  dependent 
on  God's  sovereign  grace  entirely,  and  yet  so  entirely  depend- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  157 

ent  on  me  that  the  whole  guilt  of  remaining  unconverted  would 
rest  with  me ;  I  was  so  expectant  of  some  mighty,  overwhelm 
ing  influence  that  would  bear  me  to  a  point  where  1  could  see 
through  the  darkness  and  the  discord — an  influence  which  did 
not  come — that  I  was  paralyzed  and  helpless. 

I  was  early  in  the  church,  and  saw  the  solemn  groups  as 
they  entered  and  gradually  filled  the  pews.  The  preachers, 
too,  were  early  in  the  desk.  Mr.  Bedlow  sat  where  he  could 
see  me  and  read  my  face.  I  knew  that  his  searching,  magnetic 
eyes  were  upon  me,  and  in  the  exalted  condition  of  my  sensi 
bilities  I  felt  them.  In  the  great  hush  that  followed  the  en 
trance  of  the  crowd  and  preceded  the  beginning  of  the  exer 
cises  I  saw  him  slowly  rise  and  walk  down  the  pulpit  stairs.  I 
had  never  known  anything  of  his  methods,  and  was  entirely 
unprepared  for  what  followed.  Reaching  the  aisle,  he  walked 
directly  to  where  I  sat,  and  raising  his  finger,  pointed  it  at  me 
and  said  :  "  Young  man,  are  you  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  I  answered. 

"  Do  you  ever  expect  to  become  one  ?  " 

"  I  do,"   I  replied. 

At  this  he  left  me,  and  went  to  one  and  another  in  the  con 
gregation,  putting  his  question  and  making  some  remark.  Sen 
sitive  men  and  women  hung  their  heads,  and  tried  to  evade  his 
inquiries  by  refusing  to  look  at  him. 

At  length  he  went  back  to  his  desk,  and  said  that  the  church 
could  do  no  better  than  to  hold  for  a  few  minutes  a  season  of 
prayer,  preparatory  to  the  services  of  the  evening  ;  and  then 
he  added  :  "  Will  some  brother  pray  for  a  young  man  who 
expects  to  become  a  Christian,  and  pray  that  that  expectation 
may  be  taken  away  from  him." 

Thereupon  a  young  man,  full  of  zeal,  kneeled  before  the 
congregation  and  poured  out  his  heart  for  me,  and  prayed  as 
he  had  been  asked  to  pray  :  that  my  expectation  to  become  a 
Cluistian  might  be  taken  away  from  me.  He  was,  however, 
considerate  and  kind  enough  so  far  to  modify  the  petition  as  to 
Beg  that  I  might  lose  my  expectation  in  the  immediate  realiza- 


158  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

tion  of  a  Christian  experience — that  my  hope  to  become  a 
Christian  might  be  swallowed  up  in  my  hope  of  a  Christian's 
reward. 

This  kindness  of  the  young  man,  however,  to  whose  zeal  and 
good-will  I  give  hearty  honor,  could  not  efface  the  sore  sense 
of  wrong  I  had  suffered  at  the  hand  of  Mr.  Bedlow.  Why  he 
should  have  singled  me  out  in  the  throng  for  such  an  awful 
infliction  I  did  not  know,  and  why  he  should  have  asked  any 
body  to  pray  that  all  expectation  of  becoming  a  Christian 
should  be  taken  away  from  me  I  could  not  imagine.  I  felt 
that  I  was  misunderstood  and  outraged,  at  first,  and  as  my 
anger  died  away,  or  was  quenched  by  other  emotions,  I  found 
that  I  was  still  more  deeply  puzzled  than  before.  Was  I  not 
carefully  and  prayerfully  seeking  ?  And  was  not  this  expecta 
tion  the  one  thing  which  made  my  life  endurable  ?  Would  I 
not  give  all  the  world  to  find  my  feet  upon  the  sure  foundation  ? 
Had  I  not  in  my  heart  of  hearts  determined  to  find  what  there 
was  to  be  found  if  I  could,  or  die  ? 

No  :  Mr.  Bedlow,  meaning  well  no  doubt,  and  desiring  to 
lead  me  nearer  to  spiritual  rest,  had  thrust  me  into  deeper  and 
wilder  darkness  ;  and  in  that  darkness,  haunted  by  forms  of  tor 
ment  and  terror,  I  sat  through  one  of  the  most  impressive  ser 
mons  and  exhortations  I  had  ever  heard.  I  went  out  of  the 
church  at  last  as  utterly  hopeless  and  wretched  as  I  could  be. 
There  was  a  God  of  wrath  above  me,  because  there  was  the 
guilt  of  unfulfilled  duty  gnawing  at  my  conscience,  It  seemed 
as  if  the  great  tragedy  of  the  universe  were  being  performed  in 
my  soul.  Sun,  moon,  stars,  the  kingdoms  and  glory  of  the 
world — what  were  all  these,  either  in  themselves  or  to  me,  com 
pared  with  the  interests  of  a  soul  on  which  rested  the  burden  of 
a  decision  for  its  own  heaven  or  hell? 

As  I  emerged  into  the  open  air,  I  met  Jenks  at  the  door, 
waiting  for  me,  and  as  I  lifted  my  hot  face  I  felt  the  cold  rain 
falling  upon  it.  Pitchy  darkjiess,  unrelieved  save  by  the  dim 
lights  around  the  town  and  the  blotched  and  rapidly  melting 
snow,  had  settled  upon  the  world.  I  clutched  the  old  servant's 


Arthitr  Bonnicastle.  159 

arm,  and  struck  off  in  silence  towards  home.  We  had  hardly 
walked  the  distance  of  a  block  before  there  came  a  flash  of 
blinding  lightning,  and  we  were  in  the  midst  of  that  impressive 
anomaly,  a  January  thunder-storm.  It  was  strange  how  har 
moniously  this  storm  supplemented  the  influences  of  the  ser 
vices  at  the  church,  from  which  I  had  just  retired.  To  me  it 
was  the  crowning  terror  of  the  night.  I  had  no  question  that 
it  was  directed  by  the  same  unseen  power  which  had  been 
struggling  with  me  all  day,  and  that  it  was  expressive  of  His  in 
finite  anger.  As  we  hurried  along,  unprotected  in  the  pouring 
rain,  flash  after  flash  illuminated  the  darkness,  and  peal  after 
peal  of  thunder  hurtled  over  the  city,  rolled  along  the  heavens, 
and  echoed  among  the  distant  hills.  I  walked  in  constant 
fear  of  being  struck  dead,  and  of  passing  to  the  judgment  un 
reconciled  and  unredeemed.  I  felt  that  my  soul  was  dealing 
directly  with  the  great  God,  and  under  the  play  of  his  awful  en 
ginery  of  destruction  I  realized  my  helplessness.  I  could  only 
pray  to  him,  with  gasps  of  agony,  and  in  whispers  :  "  Oh,  do 
not  crush  me  !  Spare  me,  and  I  will  do  anything  !  Save  my 
life,  and  it  shall  be  thine  !  " 

When  I  arrived  at  the  house  I  did  not  dare  to  go  in,  for  then 
I  should  be  left  alone.  Without  a  word  I  led  Jenks  to  the 
stable,  and,  dripping  with  the  rain,  we  passed  in. 

"  Oh,  Jenks,"  I  said,  "I  must  pray,  and  you  must  stay  with 
me.  I  cannot  be  left  alone." 

I  knelt  upon  the  stable-floor,  and  the  old  man,  touched  with 
sympathy,  and  awed  by  the  passion  which  possessed  me,  knelt 
at  my  side.  Oh,  what  pledges  and  promises  I  gave  in  that 
prayer,  if  God  would  spare  my  life  !  How  wildly  I  asked  for 
pardon,  and  how  earnestly  did  I  beseech  the  Spirit  of  all  Grace 
to  stay  with  me,  and  never  to  be  grieved  away,  until  his  work 
was  perfected  in  me  ! 

The  poor  old  man,  with  his  childish  mind,  could  not  under 
stand  my  abandonment  to  grief  and  terror ;  but  while  I  knelt 
I  felt  his  trembling  arm  steal  around  me,  and  knew  that  he  was 
sobbing.  His  heart  was  deeply  moved  by  pity,  but  the  case 


160  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

was  beyond  his  comprehension.     He  could  say  nothing,  but 
the  sympathy  was  very  grateful  to  me. 

And  all  this  time  there  was  another  arm  around  me,  whose 
touch  I  was  too  benumbed  to  feel ;  there  was  another  heart 
beside  me,  tender  with  sympathy,  whose  beatings  I  was  too 
much  agitated  to  apprehend  ;  there  was  a  voice  calling  to  the 
tempest  within  me,  "Peace  !  be  still!"  but  I  could  not  hear  it. 
Oh,  infinite  Father !  Oh,  loving  and  pitying  Christ !  Why 
could  I  not  have  seen  thee,  as  thou  didst  look  down  upon  and 
pity  thy  tenor-stricken  child  ?  Why  could  I  not  have  seen  thy 
arms  extended  toward  me,  and  thy  eyes  beaming  with  ineffable 
love,  calling  me  to  thy  forgiving  embrace?  How  could  I  have 
done  thee  the  dishonor  to  suppose  that  the  simple  old  servant 
kneeling  at  my  side  was  tenderer  and  more  pitiful  than  thou  ? 

We  both  grew  chilly  at  last,  and  passed  quietly  into  the  house. 
Mrs.  Sanderson  had  retired,  but  had  left  a  bright  fire  upon  the 
hearth,  at  which  both  of  us  warmed  and  dried  ourselves.  The 
storm,  meantime,  had  died  away,  though  the  lightning  still 
flapped  its  red  wings  against  the  windows,  and  the  dull  rever 
berations  of  the  thunder  came  to  me  from  the  distance.  With 
the  relief  from  what  seemed  to  be  the  danger  of  imminent  death, 
I  had  the  strength  to  mount  to  my  room  alone,  and,  after  an 
other  prayer  which  failed  to  lift  my  burden,  I  consigned  myself 
to  my  bed.  The  one  thought  that  possessed  me  as  I  lay  down 
was  that  I  might  never  wake  if  I  should  go  to  sleep.  My  ner 
vous  exhaustion  was  such  that  when  sinking  into  sleep  I  started 
many  times  from  my  pillow,  tossing  the  clothes  from  me,  and 
gasping  as  if  I  had  been  sinking  into  an  abyss.  Sleep  came  at 
last,  however,  and  I  awoke  on  the  morrow,  conscious  that  I 
had  rested,  and  rejoicing  at  least  in  the  fact  that  my  day  of  pro 
bation  was  not  yet  past.  My  heart  kindled  for  a  moment  as  I 
looked  from  my  window  into  the  face  of  the  glorious  sun,  and 
the  deep  blue  heaven,  but  sank  within  me  when  I  remembered 
my  promises,  and  felt  that  the  struggle  of  the  previous  day  was 
to  be  renewed. 

This  struggle  I  do  not  propose  to  dwell  upon  further  in  ex- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  161 

tended  detail.  If  the  record  of  it  thus  far  is  as  painful  to  read 
as  it  is  to  write,  the  reader  will  have  tired  of  it  already.  It 
lasted  for  weeks,  and  I  never  rationally  saw  my  way  out  of  that 
blindness.  There  were  literally  hundreds  in  the  city  who  pro 
fessed  to  have  found  a  great  and  superlatively  joyous  peace, 
but  I  did  not  find  it,  nor  did  it  come  to  me  in  any  way  by 
which  I  dreamed  it  might  come. 

The  vital  point  with  me  was  to  find  some  influence  so  power 
ful  that  I  could  not  resist  it.  I  felt  myself  tossing  upon  a 
dangerous  sea,  just  outside  the  harbor,  between  which  and  me 
there  stretched  an  impassable  bar.  So,  wretched  and  worn 
with  anxious  waiting,  I  looked  for  the  coining  in  of  some 
mighty  wave  which  would  lift  my  sinking  bark  over  the  forbid 
ding  obstacle,  into  the  calm  waters  that  mirrored  upon  their 
banks  the  domes  and  dwellings  of  the  city  of  the  Great  King. 

Sometimes  I  tired  of  Mr.  Bedlow,  and  went  to  other  churches, 
longing  always  to  hear  some  sermon  or  find  some  influence 
that  would  do  for  me  that  which  I  could  not  do  for  myself.  I 
visited  my  father  many  times,  but  he  could  not  help  me,  beyond 
what  he  had  already  done.  One  of  the  causes  of  my  perplex 
ity  was  the  fact  that  Henry  attended  the  prayer-meetings,  and 
publicly  participated  in  the  exercises.  I  heard,  too,  that,  in  a 
quiet  way,  he  was  very  influential  in  his  school,  and  that  many 
of  his  pupils  had  begun  a  religious  life.  Why  was  he  different 
from  myself  ?  Why  was  it  necessary  that  I  should  go  through  this 
experience  of  fear  and  torment,  while  he  escaped  it  altogether? 
All  our  previous  experience  had  been  nearly  identical.  For 
years  we  had  been  subjected  to  the  same  influences,  had 
struggled  for  the  same  self-mastery,  had  kneeled  at  the  same 
bed  in  daily  devotion ;  yet  here  he  was,  busy  in  Christian  ser 
vice,  steadily  rejoicing  in  Christian  hope,  into  which  he  had 
grown  through  processes  as  natural  as  those  by  which  the  rose- 
tree  rises  to  the  grace  of  inflorescence.  I  see  it  all  now,  but 
then  it  not  only  perplexed  me,  but  filled  me  with  weak  com 
plaining  at  my  harder  lot. 

During  these  eventful  weeks  I  often  met  Millie  Bradford  on 


1 62  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

her  way  to  and  from  school.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  from  her 
window,  she  had  made  herself  familiar  with  my  habits  of  going 
and  coming,  and  had  timed  her  own  so  as  to  fall  in  with  me. 

In  communities  not  familiar  with  the  character  and  history  of 
a  New  England  revival,  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  of 
the  universality  of  the  influence  which  they  exert  during  the 
time  of  their  highest  activity.  Multitudes  of  men  neglect  their 
business.  Meetings  are  held  during  every  evening  of  the 
week,  and  sometimes  during  all  the  days  of  the  week.  Chil 
dren,  gathered  in  their  own  little  chambers,  hold  prayer- 
meetings.  Religion  is  the  all-absorbing  topic,  with  old  and 
young. 

Millie  was  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  and,  forbidden  to  hear  Mr. 
Bedlow  preach,  she  had  determined  to  win  her  experience  at 
home.  It  touches  me  now  even  to  tears  to  remember  how  she 
used  to  meet  me  in  the  street,  and  ask  me  how  I  was  getting 
along,  how  I  liked  Mr.  Bedlow,  and  whether  he  had  helped  me. 
She  told  me  that  she  and  her  mother  were  holding  little  prayer- 
meetings  together,  but  that  Aunt  Flick  was  away  pretty  much 
all  the  time.  She  was  seeking  to  become  a  Christian,  and  at 
last  she  told  me  that  she  thought  she  had  become  one.  I  was 
rational  enough  to  see  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  an  innocent 
child  like  her  to  share  my  graver  experiences.  Indeed,  I 
listened  eagerly  to  her  expressions  of  simple  faith  and  trust,  and 
to  her  recital  of  the  purposes  of  life  to  which  she  had  com 
mitted  herself.  One  revelation  which  she  made  in  confidence, 
but  which  I  am  sure  was  uttered  because  she  wanted  me  to 
think  well  of  her  father,  interested  me  much.  She  said  her 
father  prayed  very  much  alone,  though  he  did  not  attend  the 
meetings.  The  thought  of  my  old  friend  toiling  in  secret  over 
the  problem  which  absorbed  us  all  was  very  impressive. 

Thus  weeks  passed  away,  and  the  tide  which  rose  to  its  flood 
began  to  ebb.  I  could  see  that  the  meetings  grew  less  fre 
quent,  and  that  the  old  habits  of  business  and  pleasure  were 
reasserting  themselves.  Conversions  were  rarer,  and  the 
blazing  fervor  of  action  and  devotion  cooled.  As  I  realized 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  163 

this,  and,  in  realizing  it;  found  that  I  was  just  as  far  from  the 
point  at  which  I  had  aimed  as  I  was  at  the  beginning,  a  strange, 
desperate  despair  seized  me.  I  could  hope  for  no  influences  in 
the  future  more  powerful  than  those  to  which  I  had  been  sub 
jected.  The  stimulus  to  resolution  and  endeavor  was  nearly 
expended.  Yet  I  had  many  times  vowed  to  the  Most  High 
that  before  that  season  had  passed  away  I  would  find  Him,  and, 
with  him,  peace,  if  He  and  it  were  to  be  found.  What  was  I 
to  do  ? 

At  last  there  came  a  day  of  in-gathering.  The  harvest  was  to 
be  garnered.  A  great  number  of  men,  women,  and  youth  were 
to  be  received  into  the  church.  I  went  early,  and  took  a  seat 
in  the  gallery,  where  I  could  see  the  throng  as  they  presented 
themselves  in  the  aisles  to  make  their  profession  of  faith  and 
unite  in  their  covenant.  When  called  upon  they  took  their 
places,  coming  forward  from  all  parts  of  the  audience  in  front  of 
the  Communion  table.  Among  them  were  both  Henry  and 
Claire.  At  sight  of  them  I  grew  sick.  Passage  after  passage 
of  Scripture  that  seemed  applicable  to  my  condition,  crowded 
into  my  mind.  They  came  from  the  North  and  the  South  and 
the  East  and  the  West,  and  sat  down  in  the  Kingdom  of  God, 
and  I,  a  child  of  the  Kingdom,  baptized  into  the  name  of  the 
Ineffable,  was  cast  out.  The  harvest  was  past,  the  summer 
was  ended,  and  my  soul  was  not  saved !  I  witnessed  the  cere 
monies  with  feelings  mingled  of  despair,  bitterness,  and  despe 
ration.  On  the  faces  of  these  converts,  thus  coming  into  the 
fold,  there  was  impressed  the  seal  of  a  great  and  solemn  joy. 
Within  my  bosom  there  burned  the  feeling  that  I  had  honestly 
tried  to  do  my  duty,  and  that  my  endeavors  had  been  spurned. 
In  a  moment,  to  which  I  had  been  led  by  processes  whose  end 
I  could  not  see,  my  will  gave  way,  and  I  said,  "  I  will  try  no 
longer.  This  is  the  end."  Every  resolution  and  purpose  within 
me  was  shivered  by  the  fall. 

To  what  depth  of  perdition  I  might  be  hurled — under  what 
judgment  I  might  be  crushed — I  could  not  tell,  and  hardly  cared 
to  imagine.  Quite  to  my  amazement,  I  found  myself  at  perfect 


164  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

peace.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Not  only  was  the  burden  gone, 
but  there  thrilled  through  my  soul  a  quick,  strong  joy.  My 
spirit  was  like  a  broad  sea,  alive  all  over  with  sunlit  ripples, 
with  one  broad  track  of  glory  that  stretched  across  into  the  un 
fathomable  heaven  !  I  felt  the  smile  of  God  upon  me.  I  felt 
the  love  of  God  within  me.  Was  I  insane?  Had  satan  ap 
peared  to  me  as  an  angel  of  light  and  deceived  me  ?  Was  this 
conversion  ?  I  was  so  much  in  doubt  in  regard  to  the  real  nat 
ure  of  this  experience,  that  when  I  left  the  house  I  spoke  to 
no  one  of  it.  Emerging  into  the  open  air,  I  found  myself  in  a 
new  world.  I  walked  the  streets  as  lightly  as  if  wings  had  been 
upon  my  shoulders,  lifting  me  from  point  to  point  through  all 
the  passage  homeward.  Ah,  how  blue  the  heavens  were,  and 
how  broad  and  beautiful  the  world  !  What  a  blessed  thing  it 
was  to  live !  How  sweet  were  the  faces  not  only  of  friends, 
but  even  of  those  whom  I  did  not  know  !  How  gladly  would  I 
have  embraced  every  one  of  them  !  It  was  as  if  1  had  been  un 
clothed  of  my  mortality,  and  clothed  upon  with  the  immortal. 
1  was  sure  that  heaven  could  hold  no  joy  superior  to  that. 

When  passing  Mr.  Bradford's,  I  saw  Millie  at  the  window. 
She  beckoned  to  me,  and  I  went  to  her  door.  "  How  is  it 
now  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know,  Millie,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  think  it  is  all  right. 
I  never  felt  before  as  I  do  now." 

"  Oh,  I  was  getting  so  tired  !  "  said  she.  "  I've  been  pray 
ing  for  you  for  days,  and  days,  and  days  !  and  hoping  and  hop 
ing  you'd  get  through." 

I  could  only  thank  her,  and  press  her  little  hand  ;  and  then  I 
hurried  to  my  home,  mounted  to  my  room,  shut  and  locked  the 
door,  and  sat  down  to  think. 


CHAPTER  X. 

I    JOIN   A   CHURCH   THAT   LEAVES   OUT   MR.  BRADFORD   AND 
MILLIE. 

How  shall  I  write  the  history  of  the  few  weeks  that  followed 
my  new  experience  ?  I  had  risen,  as  on  wings,  from  the  depths 
of  despair  to  the  heights  of  hope.  I  had  emerged  from  a  valley 
of  shadows,  haunted  by  ten  thousand  forms  of  terror  and  shapes 
of  anguish,  and  sat  down  upon  the  sunny  hills  of  peace.  The 
world,  which  had  become  either  mocking  or  meaningless  to  me, 
was  illuminated  with  loving  expression  in  every  feature.  Far 
above  the  deep  blue  of  the  winter  skies  my  imagination  caught 
the  sheen  of  winged  forms  and  the  far  echoes  of  happy  angel- 
voices.  I  lifted  my  face  to  the  sun,  and,  shutting  my  eyes,  felt 
the  smile  of  God  upon  me.  Every  wind  that  blew  brought  its 
ministry  of  blessing.  Every  cloud  that  swept  the  sky  bore  its 
message  of  good-will  from  heaven.  I  loved  life,  I  loved  the 
world,  I  loved  every  living  thing  I  saw,  and,  more  than  all,  1 
loved  the  Great  Father  who  had  bestowed  upon  me  such  gra 
cious  gifts  of  hope  and  healing. 

Mrs.  Sanderson,  though  she  had  said  little,  and  had  received 
no  confidence  from  me,  had  been  troubled  for  many  weeks. 
She  had  seen  in  my  haggard  eyes  and  weary  look  the  evidences 
of  a  great  trial  and  struggle ;  but  without  the  power  to  enter 
into  it,  or  to  help  me  out  of  it,  she  had  never  done  more  than 
to  ask  me  if,  for  my  health's  sake,  it  would  not  be  better  for 
me  to  attend  fewer  meetings  and  take  more  sleep.  The  weeks 
that  followed  were  only  more  satisfactory  to  her  from  the  con 
viction  that  I  was  happier,  for  I  gave  myself  with  hearty  zeal 
to  the  work  which  I  felt  had  been  imposed  upon  me. 

My  father  was  happy  in  my  new  happiness,  never  doubting 


1 66  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

that  it  had  come  to  me  through  the  Grace  of  Heaven.  I  was 
assured  on  every  hand  that  I  had  passed  through  that  change 
of  regeneration  which  was  the  true  basis  in  me,  and  in  many  at 
least,  of  the  new  life.  Meeting  Mr.  Bradford,  I  spoke  freely  to 
htm  of  my  change,  and  he  told  me  with  a  sigh  that  he  was  glad 
I  was  at  peace.  He  evidently  did  not  say  all  that  he  felt,  but 
he  said  nothing  to  discourage  me. 

It  soon  became  known  to  Mr.  Grimshaw  and  the  members 
of  his  church  that  I  had  become  a  convert,  and  I  found  abun 
dant  opportunities  at  once  to  exercise  such  gifts  as  I  possessed 
to  induce  others  to  drink  at  the  fountain  from  which  I  had 
drawn  such  draughts  of  peace  and  pleasure,  I  prayed  in  pub 
lic  ;  I  exhorted  ;  I  went  from  one  to  another  of  my  own  age 
with  personal  persuasions.  Nay,  I  was  alluded  to  and  held  up, 
in  public  and  private,  as  one  of  the  most  notable  of  the  trophies 
which  had  been  won  in  the  great  struggle  with  the  powers  of 
darkness  through  which  the  church  had  passed. 

I  look  back  now  upon  the  public  life  that  I  lived  in  those 
youthful  days  with  wonder.  Audiences  that  I  then  faced  and 
addressed  without  embarrassment  would  now  send  fever  into 
my  lips  and  tongue,  or  strike  me  dumb.  I  rejoiced  then  in  a 
prominence  from  which  I  should  now  shrink  with  a  sensitiveness 
of  pain  quite  insupportable.  I  was  the  youthful  marvel  of  the 
town ;  and  people  flocked  again  to  the  church  where  I  was  to 
be  seen  and  heard  as  if  a  new  Bedlow  had  come  down  to  them 
from  the  skies. 

This  publicity  did  not  please  Mrs.  Sanderson,  but  she  saw 
farther,  alas !  than  I  did,  and  knew  that  such  exaltation  could 
not  be  perpetual.  Could  I  have  had  a  wise  counsellor  then, 
it  would  have  saved  me  years  of  wandering  and  years  of  sorrow. 
The  tendency  of  this  public  work  was  to  make  me  vain,  and 
induce  a  love  of  the  sound  of  my  own  voice.  Without  experi 
ence,  flattered  by  attention,  stimulated  by  the  assurance  that  I 
was  doing  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  urged  on  by  my  own  de 
light  in  action,  I  fairly  took  the  bit  in  my  teeth,  and  ran  such  a 
race  as  left  me  at  last  utterly  exhausted.  I  went  from  meeting 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  167 

to  meeting  all  over  the  city.  There  was  hardly  a  church  in 
which  my  voice  was  not  heard.  Everywhere  I  was  thanked 
and  congratulated.  I  did  not  realize  then  as  I  do  now  that  I 
was  moved  by  a  thirst  for  praise,  and  that  motives  most  human 
mingled  strangely  and  strongly  with  the  divine  in  urging  me 
forward.  O  Heaven  !  to  think  that  I,  a  poor  child  in  life  and 
experience,  should  have  labored  in  Thy  name  to  win  a  crown 
to  my  personal  vanity  ! 

I  shudder  now  at  the  cruelty  practiced  upon  the  young  nearly 
everywhere,  in  bringing  them  to  the  front,  and  exposing  them 
to  such  temptations  as  those  which  then  had  the  power  to 
poison  all  my  motives,  to  brush  away  from  my  spirit  the  bloom 
of  youthful  modesty,  and  to  expose  me  to  a  process  which  was 
certain  to  ultimate  in  spiritual  torpor  and  doubt.  I  always 
tremble  and  sicken  when  I  behold  a  child  or  youth  delighting 
in  the  exercises  of  a  public  exhibition  ;  and  when  I  see,  inside 
or  outside  of  church  walls,  children  bred  to  boldness  through 
the  public  show  of  themselves  and  their  accomplishments,  and 
realize  what  part  of  their  nature  is  stimulated  to  predominance 
by  the  process,  and  what  graces  are  extinguished  by  it,  I  do 
not  wonder  at  the  lack  of  reverence  in  American  character, 
and  that  exhaustion  of  sensibility  which  makes  our  churches  so 
faint  and  fitful  in  feeling. 

Having  given  up  all  my  earlier  ideas  of  religion,  and  learned 
to  regard  them  as  wholly  inadequate  and  unworthy,  I  could  be 
in  my  new  work  little  more  than  a  parrot.  I  had  passed 
tli rough  but  a  single  phase  of  what  I  had  learned  to  regard  as  a 
genuine  religious  experience,  and  my  counsels  were  but  the 
repetitions  of  what  I  had  heard.  If  some  wise  man  or  woman 
could  have  told  me  of  myself— of  the  proprieties  that  belong  to 
the  position  of  a  neophyte — of  the  dangers  of  public  labor,  and  of 
being  publicly  petted  and  exhibited,  how  well  for  me  would  it  have 
been  !  But  I  had  no  such  counsellor.  On  the  contrary,  I  was 
seized  upon  at  once  as  a  fresh  instrumentality  for  carrying  on  a 
work  already  waning.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  of  the  immod 
esty  of  some  of  my  personal  approaches  to  my  elders  whom  I 


1 68  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

regarded  as  needing  my  ministry,  and  humiliated  by  the  memory 
of  the  considerate  forbearance  with  which  I  was  treated  for 
religion's  and  my  motive's  sake. 

It  was  in  labors  and  experiences  like  these  that  a  few  weeks 
passed  away.  Another  in-gathering  of  the  great  spiritual  har 
vest  approached.  I,  among  others,  was  to  make  a  public  pro 
fession  of  my  faith,  and  become  a  member  of  the  church.  Mr. 
Grimshaw  put  upon  me  the  task  of  persuading  the  young  of  my 
own  age  to  join  me  in  this  solemn  self-dedication,  and  I  had 
great  success  in  my  mission. 

Among  the  considerable  number  whom  I  had  selected  as 
proper  subjects  of  my  counsels  and  persuasions,  was  my  in 
teresting  friend  Millie  Bradford  :  but  I  knew  she  was  quite  too 
young  to  decide  so  momentous  a  question,  and  that  her  father 
would  not  permit  her  to  decide  it  for  herself.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  did  not  like  to  meet  Mr.  Bradford  with  my  proposition, 
for  I  anticipated  objections,  and  did  not  feel  qualified  to  argue 
with  him.  1  consulted  with  Mr.  Grimshaw  in  regard  to  the 
case,  and  it  was  finally  decided  that  we  should  visit  Mr.  Brad 
ford  together. 

Accordingly  we  called  upon  him,  and  spent  an  evening  in 
conversation,  which,  although  it  won  no  new  members  to  my 
group,  left  a  deep  impression  upon  my  mind  and  memory. 

The  conversation  was  begun  by  Mr.  Grimshaw,  who  said  : 
"We  have  called,  Mr.  Bradford,  with  the  purpose  of  conferring 
with  you  in  regard  to  your  daughter  Millie.  I  know  but  little 
of  her,  but  I  learn  through  Arthur  that  she  is  a  sharer  in  the 
blessings  of  our  great  revival.  Have  you  any  objection  to  her 
union  with  our  church,  provided  she  shall  choose  to  become  a 
member  ?  " 

"  Have  you  no  invitation  for  any  one  else  in  the  family  ? " 
inquired  Mr.  Bradford,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  there  were  other  converts  in  the 
family,"  responded  the  minister. 

"  I  speak  it  with  great  humility,  Mr.  Grimshaw,"  said  Mr. 
Bradford,  "  but  I  count  myself  a  disciple.  I  am  a  learner  at  the 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  169 

feet  of  your  Master  and  mine  ;  and  I  have  been  a  learner  for 
years.  I  do  not  regard  myself  as  having  attained,  or  fully  ap 
prehended,  but  I  follow  on,  and  I  should  like  society  on  the 
way,  as  well  as  any  one." 

"  But  your  views  do  not  accord  with  those  professed  by  our 
church,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  business  the  church  may  legitimately 
have  with  my  private  opinions.  I  learn  from  the  New  Testa 
ment  that  he  who  repents  and  believes  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
shall  be  saved.  A  man  who  does  this  belongs  at  least  to  the 
invisible  church,  and  I  do  not  recognize  the  right  of  a  body  of 
men  calling  themselves  a  church  to  shut  out  from  their  com 
munion  any  man  or  woman  who  belongs  to  the  church  invisible, 
or  any  one  whom  the  Master  counts  among  his  disciples." 

"  But  we  must  have  some  standard  of  faith  and  belief,"  said 
Mr.  Grimshaw. 

"  I  suppese  you  must,"  responded  Mr.  Bradford,  "  but  why 
should  you  construct  it  of  non-essential  materials  ?  Why 
should  you  build  a  high  fence  around  your  church,  and  insist 
that  every  man  shall  climb  every  rail,  when  the  first  is  all  that 
the  Master  asks  him  to  climb.  I  recognize  repentance  and 
trust  as  the  basis  of  a  Christian  character  and  life,  and  I  regard 
character  as  the  one  grand  result  at  which  the  Author  of  Chris 
tianity  aimed.  He  desired  to  make  good  men  out  of  bad  men  ; 
and  repentance  and  trust  form  the  basis  of  the  process.  When 
you  go  beyond  this,  with  your  dogmas  and  your  creeds,  you  in 
fringe  upon  the  liberty  of  those  whom  repentance  and  trust 
have  made  free.  Personally,  I  feel  that  I  am  suffering  a  great 
wrong,  inflicted  in  ignorance  and  with  good  motives  no  doubt, 
but  still  a  wrong,  in  that  I  am  shutout  from  Christian  sympathy 
and  fellowship.  I  will  not  profess  to  believe  any  more  than  I 
do  believe.  It  is  simply  impossible  for  me,  a  rational,  honest, 
mature  man,  to  accept  that  which  you  prescribe  for  me.  I  am 
perfectly  willing  that  you  should  believe  what  seems  to  you  to 
be  true,  touching  all  these  points  of  doctrine.  I  only  insist 
that  you  shall  be  a  Christian  in  heart  and  life — an  honest  disci 


170  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

pie.  If  you  cannot  give  me  the  same  liberty,  under  the  same 
conditions,  we  can  never  get  any  nearer  together." 

"  You  seem  to  forget,"  responded  the  minister,  "  that  our 
creed  is  the  product  of  whole  ages  of  Christian  wisdom — that 
it  has  been  framed  by  men  of  wide  and  profound  experience, 
who  have  learned  by  that  experience  what  is  essential  to  the 
stability  and  purity  of  the  church." 

"And  you  seem  to  forget,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  "that  the 
making  and  defense  of  creeds  have  rent  the  seamless  garment 
of  the  Lord  into  ten  thousand  fragments — that  they  have  been 
the  instruments  for  the  destruction  of  the  unity  of  the  church  in 
fact  and  feeling — that  they  have  not  only  been  the  subjects  of 
controversies  that  have  disgraced  the  church  before  the  world, 
and  embittered  the  relations  of  large  bodies  of  Christians,  but 
have  instigated  the  crudest  persecutions  and  the  most  out 
rageous  murders  and  martyrdoms.  You  are  not  so  bigoted  as 
to  deny  that  there  are  Christians  among  all  the  sects  ;  and  you 
are  liberal  enough  to  give  to  the  different  sects  the  liberty  of 
faith  which  they  claim.  The  world  is  growing  better  in  this 
thing,  and  is  not  so  intolerant  as  it  was.  Now,  why  will  you 
not  give  me  the  same  liberty,  as  a  man,  that  you  give  to  churches 
founded  on  creeds  at  variance  with  yours?  You  invite  the 
teachers  of  other  sects  into  your  pulpit.  You  invite  their  peo 
ple  to  your  communion  table,  while  you  shut  me  away  by  con 
ditions  that  are  just  as  impossible  to  me  as  they  would  be  to 
them." 

I  could  see  that  Mr.  Grimshaw  was  not  only  overwhelmed  in 
argument  but  deeply  moved  in  feeling.  He  grasped  Mr.  Brad 
ford's  hand,  and  said:  "My  dear  sir,  it  would  give  me  one  of 
the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  life  to  receive  you  into  our  com 
munion,  for  I  believe  in  your  sincerity  and  in  your  character, 
but  I  could  not  if  I  would." 

"  I  know  it,"  responded  Mr.  Bradford  :  "  your  sympathies 
go  beyond  your  creed,  and  your  most  earnest  convictions  stop 
short  of  it.  Your  hands  are  tied,  and  your  tongue  must  be 
dumb.  You  and  your  church  will  go  on  in  the  old  way.  The 


Arthur  Bonnie  as  tic.  171 

young  who  do  not  think,  and  the  mature  who  will  not  try  to 
think,  or  do  not  dare  to  try,  will  accept  what  you  prescribe  for 
them.  Women,  more  trustful  and  religious  than  men,  will  con 
stitute  the  majority  of  your  members.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
thinking  men — the  strong,  influential,  practical  men  of  society 
— the  men  of  culture,  enterprise,  and  executive  power — will  re 
main  outside  of  the  church — shut  out  by  a  creed  which  their 
reason  refuses  to  accept." 

"  I  am  afraid  the  creed  is  not  altogether  to  blame  for  their 
exclusion,"  said  the  minister.  "  '  Not  many  wise ' — you  re 
member  the  quotation." 

"  When  Christianity  was  an  apostasy  from  a  church  to  which 
all  the  wise  and  mighty  were  attached,"  replied  Mr.  Bradford, 
"  your  quotation  was  doubtless  true  as  a  statement  of  fact,  but 
we  belong  to  another  nation  and  age.  I  hold  myself  a  type 
and  representative  of  a  large  class,  who  cannot  enter  the  church 
without  self  stultification  and  a  sacrifice  of  that  liberty  of 
thought  and  opinion  which  is  their  birthright.  We  cannot 
afford  to  do  without  you,  and  you  cannot  afford  to  do  without 
us.  It  is  your  business  to  make  a  home  for  us,  for  we  are  all 
passing  on  to  that  stage  and  realm  of  being  where  opinions  will 
be  of  small  account,  and  where  character  will  decide  everything." 

"  We  have  wandered  very  far  from  your  daughter,  Mr.  Brad 
ford,  about  whom  we  came  to  talk,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw. 

An  expression  of  pain  passed  over  Mr.  Bradford's  face. 
Then  he  rose,  and  walking  to  a  door  which  closed  another 
room,  opened  it,  and  called  his  daughter.  Millie  entered  the 
room  with  a  question  in  her  eyes,  and  shaking  hands  with  us, 
went  to  her  father's  side,  where  she  stood  with  his  arm  around 
her  during  the  remainder  of  the  interview. 

"Millie,"  said  her  father,  "Mr.  Grimshaw'and  Arthur  have 
come  here  to  invite  you  to  join  the  church.  Would  you  like 
to  do  so  ?  " 

"If  you  and  mamma  think  I  ought  to,"  she  replied. 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Bradford,  conjecturing,  I  suppose,  the 
object  of  our  visit,  entered  the  room,  and  giving  us  a  most 


i  72  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

friendly  greeting,  took  a  seat  near  her  daughter.  Mr.  Bradford 
repeated  our  proposal  to  her,  and  Millie's  reply  to  it. 

"  I  should  regard  it  as  one  of  the  sweetest  satisfactions  of  my 
life  to  have  my  child  with  me  in  church  communion,"  she  said, 
looking  down  to  hide  the  tears  that  she  felt  filling  her  eyes. 

"And  I  sympathize  with  you  entirely  in  your  feeling,"  added 
Mr.  Bradford. 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw,  "nothing  will  stand  in  the  way, 
provided,  upon  examination,  your  daughter  gives  evidence  of 
an  intelligent  entrance  upon  a  Christian  experience." 

"  Which  means,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  "  that  if  she 
will  accept  your  whole  creed  and  scheme  on  trust,  as  well  as 
give  evidence  of  having  determined  upon  a  Christian  life,  you 
will  endow  her  with  the  privileges  of  membership." 

"  We  have  but  one  condition  for  all,  as  you  know,"  re 
sponded  the  minister. 

"  I  suppose  so  ;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  it  is  a  very 
cruel  thing  ;  for  her  intelligence  reaches  no  further  than  the  one 
essential  thing  which  makes  her  a  Christian  child,  viz.,  personal 
loyalty  to  the  Master.  Beyond  this  she  knows  absolutely 
nothing,  and  for  her  it  is  enough.  To  insist  that  she  shall  re 
ceive  a  whole  body  of  divinity  about  which  she  is  utterly 
ignorant,  and  which,  at  present,  has  no  relation  to  her 
Christian  character  and  life,  is  to  do  that  which  you  have  no 
right  to  do.  When  Jesus  took  little  children  in  his  arms  and 
blessed  them,  and  declared  that  of  such  was  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  he  did  not  impose  any  conditions  upon  them.  It  was 
sufficient  for  him  that  they  were  in  his  arms,  and  had  trust  and 
confidence  enough  to  nestle  and  be  contented  and  happy 
there.  You  take  the  responsibility  of  going  beyond  him,  and 
of  making  conditions  which  cannot  be  complied  with  without  a 
surrender  of  all  future  liberty  of  thought  and  opinion.  You 
have  members  in*  your  church  to-day  who  committed  themselves 
to  opinions  when  young,  or  under  excitement,  that  they  now 
hold  most  loosely,  or  with  questionings  that  are  a  constant  tor 
ture  to  them.  I  know  it,  for  they  have  told  me  so  ;  and  I  can- 


Arthur  Bonnicastlc.  173 

not  consent  that  my  child  shall  be  denied  the  free  and 
unrestrained  formation  of  opinions  when  her  maturer  mind 
becomes  able  to  form  them.  The  reason  that  has  no  range 
but  the  bounds  of  a  creed,  constructed  by  human  hands,  will 
become  dwarfed  as  certainly  as  the  wings  of  a  bird  are  weak 
ened  by  the  wires  of  a  cage." 

Mr.  Grimshaw  listened  attentively  to  the  speaker,  and  then 
said  :  "  I  fear  that  your  ideas  would  form  a  very  poor  basis  for 
a  church.  We  should  be  deprived  of  any  principle  or  power 
of  cohesion,  without  unity  of  belief.  Such  liberty  as  you  desire, 
or  seem  to  think  desirable,  would  soon  degenerate  into  license. 
The  experience  of  the  church  has  proved  it,  and  the  united 
wisdom  of  the  church  has  declared  it." 

"  My  ideas  of  the  true  basis  of  the  church  are  very  simple," 
said  Mr.  Bradford.  "  I  would  make  it  an  organization  of 
Christian  disciples — of  Christian  learners  ;  you  would  make  it 
a  conservatory  of  those  who  have  arrived  at  the  last  conclu 
sions  in  dogmatic  theology.  I  would  make  it  a  society  of 
those  who  have  accepted  the  Master,  and  pledged  their  hearts 
and  lives  to  him,  with  everything  to  learn  and  the  liberty  to 
learn  it  by  such  means  as  they  can  command ;  you  would  frame 
it  with  limits  to  all  progress.  You  would  make  it  a  school 
where  all  are  professors ;  I  would  make  it  a  school  where  all 
are  learners.  In  short,  you  would  make  a  sectarian  church, 
and  I  would  make  a  Christian  church  ;  and  I  cannot  but  be 
lieve  that  there  is  such  a  church  awaiting  us  in  the  future — a 
church  which  will  receive  both  me  and  my  daughter,  to  give 
me  the  rest  and  fellowship  I  long  for,  and  her  the  nurture, 
restraint  and  support  which  she  will  need  among  the  world's 
great  temptations." 

I  do  not  know  what  the  minister  thought  of  all  this,  for  he 
said  but  little.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  these  discussions 
with  Mr.  Bradford,  and  either  deemed  them  unfruitful  of  good 
or  found  it  difficult  to  maintain  his  position.  He  felt  sure  of 
me,  and  did  not  regard  it  of  consequence  to  talk  on  my 
account.  As  Mr.  Bradford  closed,  he  sighed  and  said  : 


1/4  ArtJiur  Bonnicastlc. 

"Well,  Millie,  I  suppose  you  will  do  as  your  father  wishes, 
and  stay  away  from  us." 

Millie  looked  at  her  father  and  then  at  her  mother,  with  a 
quick,  earnest  glance  of  inquiry. 

Mrs.  Bradford  said  :  "Mr.  Bradford  and  I  never  differ  on 
anything  relating  to  our  child.  So  far  as  our  creed  is  con 
cerned  I  am  entirely  content  with  it;  but  I  have  no  wish  to 
commit  my  child  to  it,  though  I  freely  instruct  her  in  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  minister,  "  perhaps  it  will  be  better  to 
leave  her  with  you  for  the  present." 

Then  he  advanced  to  Mr.  Bradford  for  a  private  conference 
upon  some  other  subject,  apparently,  and  Millie  started  quickly 
and  walked  to  the  window  where  I  joined  her. 

"  Are  n't  you  sorry  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be,"  I  said. 

"  No,  it  is  all  right.  Father  knows.  Don't  you  think  he's 
splendid  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  he  is  right,"  I  responded. 

"  Why,  I  know  he's  right,"  she  said  warmly.  "  He's  always 
right ;  and  isn't  it  sweet  of  him  to  let  me  hear  him  talk  about 
everything  ?  " 

Here  was  the  personal  loyalty  again.  Beyond  this  the  girl 
could  not  go.  She  could  trust  her  father  and  her  Master. 
She  could  obey  both  and  love  both,  and  it  was  all  of  religion 
that  she  was  capable  of.  I  supposed  that  the  minister  must 
know  better  than  any  of  us,  but  I  had  no  doubt  of  Millie's  fit 
ness  for  the  church,  and  wondered  why  it  was  that  a  baptized 
child  should  be  shut  out  of  the  fold  by  a  creed  she  was  utterly 
incapable  of  comprehending.  I  confess,  too,  that  I  sympathized 
with  Mr.  Bradford's  view  of  the  church  as  it  related  to  himself, 
yet  I  had  given  my  trust  to  the  minister,  and  it  was  only  my 
personal  loyalty  to  him  that  reconciled  me  to  his  opposing 
opinions.  Then  there  flashed  upon  me  the  consciousness  that 
I  was  to  profess  before  God  and  men  a  belief  in  dogmas  that  I 
had  not  even  examined,  and  was  entirely  without  the  power  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  175 

explaining  or  defending  to  myself  or  others.  The  fact  made 
me  tremble,  and  I  dismissed  it  as  soon  as  possible. 

I  fear  that  I  should  weary  my  reader  by  dwelling  upon  the 
spiritual  experiences  that  attended  the  assumption  of  my  vows. 
Since  the  memorable  day  on  which  I  stood  among  twenty 
others,  and  publicly  pledged  my  life  to  the  Redeemer,  and 
gave  my  unqualified  assent  to  the  doctrines  of  the  creed,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  witness  a  similar  scene  without  tears. 
With  all  the  trust  natural  to  youth  I  received  that  which  was 
presented  to  me,  and  with  all  the  confidence  of  youth  in  its 
own  power  to  fulfill  its  promises,  I  entered  into  the  most 
solemn  covenant  which  man  can  make.  There  was  no  sus 
picion  in  me  of  a  possible  reaction.  There  was  no  anticipation 
of  temptations  before  which  I  should  tremble  or  fall.  There 
was  no  cloud  that  portended  darkness  or  storm.  I  regarded 
myself  as  entering  a  fold  from  which  I  should  go  out  no  more, 
save  under  the  conduct  and  ward  of  a  Shepherd  who  would 
lead  me  only  through  green  pastures  and  beside  still  waters. 

All  my  friends,  including  Mrs.  Sanderson,  were  present. 
Mr.  Bradford  and  his  family  sat  near  me,  and  I  saw  that  he 
had  been  deeply  moved.  He  read  the  future  better  than  I, 
and  saw  before  my  intense  and  volatile  spirit  that  which  I  could 
not  see.  He  knew  the  history  of  one  human  heart,  and  he 
interpreted  the  future  of  mine  by  his  own.  At  the  close  of  the 
services  Mrs.  Sanderson  drove  home  alone  with  Jenks  ;  and  the 
Bradfords  with  Henry  and  my  own  family  walked  home  to 
gether.  As  I  left  my  father  at  his  door,  with  Henry  and 
Claire,  I  found  myself  with  Millie.  We  fell  behind  her  father 
and  mother,  and  after  she  had  looked  around  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  not  observed,  she  unfolded  her  handkerchief  and 
showed  me  a  crumb  of  the  sacramental  bread. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  prayed  that  it  might  drop  when  it  was  handed  to  my 
mother,  and  it  did,"  she  replied. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  "  I  inquired. 


176  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  I  am  going  to  my  room  -when  I  get  home,  and  have  a 
communion  all  by  myself." 

"  But  do  you  think  it  will  be  right  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  don't  think  He  will  care.  He  knows  that  I  love  him,  and 
that  it  is  the  only  chance  I  have.  It  is  his  bread,  and  came 
from  his  table,  and  Mr.  Grimshaw  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

I  was  dumb  with  astonishment,  and  could  offer  no  remon 
strance.  Indeed  I  sympathized  with  her  so  much  that  I  could 
not  have  deprived  her  of  her  anticipated  enjoyment. 

Then  I  asked  her  what  she  would  do  for  wine. 

"  I  shall  kiss  my  mother's  lips,"  she  replied,  and  then  added  : 
"  I  wonder  if  she  will  know  that  anything  is  gone,  as  the 
Saviour  did  when  the  woman  touched  him  ?  " 

I  think  if  I  could  have  retired  with  Millie  to  her  seclusion, 
and  shared  her  crumb  away  from  the  eyes  of  a  curious  world, 
and  the  distractions  of  the  public  gaze,  I  should  have  come 
out  stronger  and  purer  for  the  feast.  I  left  her  at  her  door, 
and  went  slowly  home,  imagining  the  little  girl  at  prayer,  and 
tasting  the  crumb  which  had  fallen  from  the  Master's  table. 
The  thought  of  the  reverent  kiss  which  the  mother  was  to  re 
ceive  that  night,  all  unconscious  of  the  draught  of  spiritual 
comfort  which  her  child  would  quaff  there,  quite  overcame  me. 

And  it  was  this  child,  with  her  quick  insight  and  implicit 
faith,  that  had  been  shut  out  of  the  fold  because  she  had  no 
opinions  !  It  was  her  father,  too,  carefully  seeking  and  prayer 
fully  learning,  who  had  been  refused  admittance,  because  he 
would  not  surrender  his  reason  and  his  liberty  of  thought ! 
Already  I  began  to  doubt  the  infallibility  of  my  Pope.  Al 
ready  there  had  crept  into  my  mind  the  suspicion  that  there 
was  something  wrong  in  a  policy  which  made  more  of  sound 
opinions  than  of  sound  character.  Already  I  felt  that  there 
was  something  about  these  two  persons  that  was  higher  in 
Christian  experience  than  anything  I  could  claim.  Already  I 
had  become  dimly  conscious  of  a  spiritual  pride  in  myself,  that 
I  did  not  see  in  them,  and  convinced  that  they  were  better 
fitted  to  adorn  a  Christian  profession  than  myself. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  177 

So  the  struggle  was  over,  and  I  was  called  upon  by  the  rap 
idly  advancing  spring  to  resume  the  studies  which  had  long 
been  interrupted.  As  I  addressed  myself  with  strong  deter 
mination  to  my  work,  I  was  conscious  of  a  greatly  impaired 
power  of  application.  The  effect  of  the  winter's  excitement 
and  absorption  had  been  to  dissipate  my  mental  power,  and 
destroy  my  habits  of  mental  labor.  It  took  me  many  weeks 
to  get  back  upon  my  old  track,  and  I  was  led  through  many 
discouragements.  When  I  had  fairly  accomplished  my  purpose 
and  felt  that  I  was  making  genuine  progress,  I  discovered  that 
it  was  impossible  to  keep  up  the  public  life  I  had  been  leading, 
and  the  zeal  which  had  spurred  me  on  in  my  Christian  work. 
For  weeks  I  faithfully  continued  my  attendance  on  the  meetings 
of  the  church,  which,  by  becoming  less  frequent,  had  adapted 
themselves  somewhat  to  my  new  circumstances,  but  to  my  great 
sorrow  I  found  my  zest  in  their  exercises  gradually  dying 
away.  I  prayed  often  and  long  that  I  might  not  become  a 
back-slider,  and  that  the  joy  and  comfort  of  the  early  days  might 
abide  with  me.  It  was  all  in  vain.  The  excitement  of  sym 
pathetic  crowds  and  the  predominance  of  a  single  topic  in  the 
public  mind  had  passed  away,  and,  unsupported  by  those  stimuli, 
I  was  left  to  stand  alone — an  uncertain,  tottering,  self-suspi 
cious  youth — with  the  great  work  of  life  all  before  me. 

Gradually  the  old  motives  which  had  actuated  me  came  back 
and  presented  themselves ;  and  to  my  sad  surprise  they  found 
that  in  me  which  responded  to  them.  The  wealth  which  had 
held  before  me  its  glittering  promise  still  possessed  its  charm 
ing  power,  and  suggested  its  worldly  delights.  The  brilliant 
college  career  which  I  had  determined  to  achieve  for  honor's 
and  glory's  sake  came  up  to  me  among  my  suspended  purposes, 
and  shone  with  all  its  old  attractions.  The  pride  of  dress  and 
social  position  was  not  dead — it  had  only  slept,  and  waited  but 
a  touch  and  a  nod  to  spring  into  life  again.  The  temptations 
which  the  world  held  for  my  sensuous  nature  found  my  appetites 
and  passions  still  unsubdued. 

Then  there  came  upon  me  first  the  conviction  and  the  con 
s' 


1/8  ArtJmr  Bonnicastle. 

sciousness  that  my  life  was  to  be  one  of  warfare,  if  it  was  to 
be  a  Christian  life  at  all — that  I  was  really  back  upon  my  old 
ground,  and  that  whatever  of  genuine  progress  I  should  make 
would  be  through  prayerful,  rigid,  persistent  culture.  That 
there  was  something  unspeakably  discouraging  in  this,  I  need 
not  affirm.  It  had  the  power  to  make  the  experiences  through 
which  I  had  so  recently  passed  seem  altogether  hollow  and 
unreal.  I  had  only  dreamed  of  regeneration,  after  all.  The 
new  birth  had  only  been  the  birth  of  a  purpose,  which  needed 
nursing  and  strengthening  and  educating  like  an  infant. 

Still  I  would  not,  could  not,  admit  that  I  had  not  made  the 
genuine  beginning  of  a  religious  life.  If  I  had  done  this,  I. 
should  have  grown  callous  or  desperate  at  once. 

And  now  I  beg  the  privilege  of  saying  to  those  who  may  be 
interested  in  this  narrative,  that  I  have  not  addressed  myself  to 
the  task  of  writing  down  revivals.  I  am  detailing  the  experi 
ences  of  a  human  soul.  That  revivals  are  useful  in  communi 
ties  where  great  excitements  are  necessary  to  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  the  careless  and  the  vicious,  I  can  well  believe.  That 
multitudes  begin  a  religious  life  through  their  influence  there  is 
no  doubt.  That  they  are  dangerous  passages  for  the  church  to 
pass  through  would  seem  also  to  be  well  established,  as  by  the 
laws  of  the  human  mind  all  great  excitements  and  all  extraordi 
nary  labors  are  followed  by  corresponding  depressions  and  ex 
haustions.  I  seriously  doubt  whether  Christian  growth  is 
greatly  forwarded  by  these  exceptional  agencies.  All  true 
growth  in  the  realm  of  nature  is  the  result  of  a  steady  unfold 
ing  from  a  germ  :  and  the  realm  of  grace  is  ruled  by  the  same 
Being  who  perfects  the  flower  and  builds  the  tree.  I  can  afford 
to  be  misconstrued,  misunderstood  and  misrepresented  if  I  can 
do  anything  to  direct  the  attention  of  the  church  to  the  fact 
that  there  are  better  methods  of  progress  than  those  which  are 
attended  with  such  cost  and  such  danger,  and  that  in  the  Chris 
tian  nurture  of  children  and  the  wide  opening  of  the  Christian 
fold  to  them  abides  the  hope  of  the  church  and  the  world.  I 
shall  be  ten  thousand  times  repaid  for  any  suspicion  of  my  mo- 


ArtJmr  Bonnicastle.  1 79 

tives,  if  I  can  bring  a  single  pastor,  or  a  single  church,  to  the 
realization  of  the  fact  that  true  Christian  beginnings  are  not  nec 
essarily  conformed  to  any  special  dramatic  experience  ;  that  a 
pastor  can  lead  his  flock  better  than  a  stranger  whose  voice  they 
do  not  know,  and  that  their  creeds  are  longer  and  more  elabo 
rate  than  they  have  any  right  to  make.  If  the  labor  expended 
upon  revivals  were  spread  evenly  over  greater  space,  and 
applied  with  never-flagging  persistency  to  the  shaping  and  the 
nurture  of  the  plastic  and  docile  minds  of  the  young,  I  am  sure 
that  the  Christian  kingdom  would  increase  in  numbers  and  ad 
vance  in  power  by  a  progress  at  once  natural,  healthy  and  irre 
sistible.  The  fiery  shower  that  pours  its  flood  upon  the  earth 
in  an  hour,  leaves  the  ground  fresh  for  the  day,  but  it  also  leaves 
it  scarred  and  seamed,  the  swollen  torrents  carrying  half  its 
wealth  into  the  sea,  while  the  steady  rain  of  days  sinks  into  the 
earth  to  nourish  the  roots  of  all  things,  and  make  the  springs 
perennial. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  OLD  PORTRAIT  IS  DISCOVERED  AND  OLD  JENKS  HAS  A 
REAL  VOYAGE  AT  SEA. 

THE  spring  passed  quickly  away,  and  the  fervors  of  the  June 
sun  were  upon  us.  Mrs.  Sanderson,  whose  health  had  been  a 
marvel  of  uniformity,  became  ill,  and  showed  signs  of  that  fail 
ure  of  the  vital  power  which  comes  at  last  to  all.  She  was  ad 
vised  by  her  physician  that  she  needed  a  change  of  air,  and  en 
couraged  to  believe  that  if  she  should  get  relief  at  once  she 
might  retain  her  hold  upon  life  for  some  years  longer.  Ar 
rangements  were  accordingly  perfected  to  send  her  with  a  trusty 
maid  to  a  watering-place  a  few  leagues  distant.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  she  had  come  to  look  upon  death  as  not  far  away 
from  her,  and  that  she  had  contemplated  the  possibility  of  its 
visitation  while  absent  from  home.  I  could  see  that  her  eye 
was  troubled  and  anxious.  Her  lawyer  was  with  her  for  two 
days  before  her  departure. 

On  the  morning  before  she  left  she  called  me  into  her  little 
library,  and  delivering  her  keys  into  my  keeping,  said  : 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you,  Arthur,  except  that  all  my  af 
fairs  are  arranged,  so  that  if  I  should  never  return  you  will  find 
everything  in  order.  You  know  my  ways  and  wishes.  Follow 
out  your  plans  regarding  yourself,  and  my  lawyer  will  tell  you 
of  mine.  Maintain  the  position  and  uphold  the  honor  of  this 
house.  It  will  be  yours.  I  cannot  lake  it  with  me  ;  I  have 
no  one  else  to  leave  it  to — and  yet — 

She  was  more  softened  than  I  had  ever  seen  her,  and  her  sad 
and  helpless  look  quite  overwhelmed  me.  I  had  so  long  ex 
pected  her  munificence  that  this  affected  me  much  less  than 
the  change,  physical  and  mental,  which  had  passed  over  her. 

li  My  dear,  precious  Aunt,"    I  said,  "  you  are  not  going  to 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  181 

die.  I  cannot  let  you  die.  I  am  too  young  to  spare  you.  You 
will  go  away,  and  get  well,  and  live  a  long  time." 

Then  I  kissed  her,  and  thanked  her  for  her  persistent  kindness 
aiid  her  splendid  gifts,  in  words  that  seemed  so  poor  and  inad 
equate  that  I  was  quite  distressed. 

She  was  deeply  moved.  Her  physical  weakness  was  such 
that  the  iron  rule  of  her  will  over  her  emotions  was  broken.  I 
believe  she  would  have  been  glad  to  have  me  take  her  in  my 
arms,  like  a  child,  and  comfort  her.  After  sitting  awhile  in 
silence,  I  said  :  "  Please  tell  me  what  you  were  thinking  of 
when  you  said  :  '  And  yet '  ?  " 

She  gave  me  no  direct  reply,  but  said :  "  Do  you  remember 
the  portrait  of  a  boy  which  you  saw  when  you  first  came  to  the 
house  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  I  replied. 

"  This  key,"  said  .she,  taking  the  bunch  of  keys  from  my 
hand  which  I  still  held,  "  will  open  a  door  in  the  dining-room 
which  you  have  never  seen  opened.  You  know  where  it  is. 
After  I  am  gone  away,  I  wish  you  to  open  that  closet,  and 
take  out  the  portrait,  and  hang  it  just  where  it  was  before.  I 
wish  to  have  it  hang  there  as  long  as  the  house  stands.  You 
have  learned  not  to  ask  any  questions.  If  ever  I  come  back, 
I  shall  find  it  there.  If  I  do  not,  you  will  keep  it  there  for  my 
sake." 

I  promised  to  obey  her  will  in  every  particular,  and  then  the 
carriage  drove  up  to  bear  her  away.  Our  parting  was  very 
quiet,  but  full  of  feeling  ;  and  I  saw  her  turn  and  look  back  af 
fectionately  at  the  old  house,  as  she  passed  slowly  down  the  hill. 

I  was  thus  left  alone — with  the  old  servant  Jenks — the  mas 
ter  of  The  Mansion.  It  will  be  readily  imagined  that,  still  re 
taining  my  curiosity  with  regard  to  the  picture,  I  lost  no  time 
in  finding  it.  Sending  Jenks  away  on  some  unimportant 
errand,  I  entered  the  dining-room,  and  locked  myself  in.  Un 
der  a  most  fascinating  excitement  I  inserted  the  key  in  the  lock 
of  the  closet.  The  bolt  was  moved  with  difficulty,  like  one 
long  unused.  Throwing  open  the  door,  I  looked  in.  First  I 


1 82  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

saw  an  old  trunk,  the  covering  of  rawhide,  fastened  by  brass 
nails  which  had  turned  green  with  rust.  I  lifted  the  lid,  and 
found  it  full  of  papers.  I  had  already  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
picture,  yet  by  a  curious  perversity  of  will  I  insisted  on  seeing 
it  last.  Next  I  came  upon  an  old  punch-bowl,  a  reminder  of 
the  days  when  there  were  men  and  revelry  in  the  house.  It 
was  made  of  silver,  and  had  the  Bonnicastle  arms  upon  its  side. 
How  old  it  was,  I  could  not  tell,  but  it  was  evidently  an  heir 
loom.  A  rusty  musket  stood  in  one  corner,  of  the  variety  then 
known  as  "  Queen's  Arms."  In  another  corner  hung  a  military 
coat,  trimmed  with  gold  lace.  The  wreck  of  an  ancient  and 
costly  clock  stood  upon  a  shelf,  the  pendulum  of  which  was  a 
swing,  with  a  little  child  in  it.  I  remember  feeling  a  whimsical 
pity  for  the  child  that  had  waited  for  motion  so  long  in  the 
darkness,  and  so  reached  up  and  set  him  swinging,  as  he  had 
done  so  many  million  times  in  the  years  that  were  dead  and 
gone.  I  lingered  long  upon  every  article,  and  wondered  how 
many  centuries  it  would  take  of  such  seclusion  to  dissolve 
them  all  into  dust. 

I  had  no  excuse  for  withholding  my  eyes  from  the  picture 
any  longer.  I  lifted  it  carefully  from  the  nail  where  it  hung, 
and  set  it  down  by  the  dining-room  wall.  Then  I  closed  and 
locked  the  door.  Not  until  I  had  carefully  cleaned  the  paint 
ing,  and  dusted  the  frame,  and  hung  it  in  its  old  place,  did 
I  venture  to  look  at  it  with  any  thought  of  careful  study  ;  and 
even  this  observation  I  determined  to  take  first  from  the  point 
where  I  sat  when  I  originally  discovered  it.  I  arranged  the 
light  to  strike  it  at  the  right  angle,  and  then  opening  the  pas 
sage  into  the  library,  went  and  sat  down  precisely  where  I  had 
sat  nearly  six  years  before,  under  the  spell  of  Mrs.  Sanderson's 
command.  I  had  already,  while  handling  it,  found  the  date  of 
the  picture,  and  the  name  of  the  painter  on  the  back  of  the 
canvas,  and  knew  that  the  lad  whom  it  represented  had  become 
a  man  considerably  past  middle  life,  or,  what  seemed  more 
probable,  remembering  Mrs.  Sanderson's  strange  actions  in  re 
gard  to  it,  a  heap  of  dust  and  ashes. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  183 

With  my  first  long  look  at  the  picture,  came  back  the  old 
clays  ;  and  I  was  again  a  little  boy,  with  all  my  original  interest 
in  the  beautiful  young  face.  I  expected  to  see  a  likeness  of 
Henry,  but  Henry  had  grown  up  and  changed,  and  I  found  it 
quite  impossible  to  take  him  back  in  my  imagination  to  the 
point  where  his  face  answered,  in  any  considerable  degree,  to 
the  lineaments  of  this.  Still  there  was  a  likeness,  indefinable, 
far  back  in  the  depths  of  expression,  and  hovering  around  the 
contour  of  the  face  and  head,  that  at  first  puzzled  me,  and  at 
last  convinced  me  that,  if  I  could  get  at  the  secrets  of  my 
friend's  life,  I  should  find  that  he  was  a  Bonnicastle.  I  had 
often  while  at  school,  in  unexpected  glimpses  of  Henry's  feat 
ures,  been  startled  by  the  resemblance  of  his  face  to  some  of 
the  members  of  my  own  family.  The  moment  I  studied  his 
features,  however,  the  likeness  was  gone.  It  was  thus  with 
the  picture.  Analysis  spoiled  it  as  the  likeness  of  my  friend, 
yet  it  had  a  subtle  power  to  suggest  him,  and  to  convince  me 
that  he  was  a  sharer  of  the  family  blood. 

I  cannot  say,  much  as  I  loved  Henry,  that  I  was  pleased 
with  my  discovery.  Nor  was  I  pleased  with  the  reflections 
which  it  stirred  in  me  ;  for  I  saw  through  them  something  of 
the  mercenary  meanness  of  my  own  character.  I  was  glad 
that  Mrs.  Sanderson  had  never  seen  him.  I  was  glad  that  he 
had  declined  her  invitation,  and  that  she  had  come  to  regard 
him  with  such  dislike  that  she  would  not  even  hear  his  name 
mentioned.  I  knew  that  if  he  were  an  accepted  visitor  of  the 
house  I  should  be  jealous  of  him,  for  I  was  conscious  of  his  su 
periority  to  me  in  many  points,  and  felt  that  Mrs.  Sanderson 
would  find  much  in  him  that  would  please  her.  His  quiet  bear 
ing,  his  steadiness,  his  personal  beauty,  his  steadfast  integrity, 
would  all  be  appreciated  by  her  ;  and  1  was  sure  she  could  not 
fail  to  detect  in  him  the  family  likeness. 

Angry  with  myself  for  indulging  such  unworthy  thoughts,  I 
sprang  to  my  feet,  and  went  nearer  to  the  picture — went  where 
1  could  see  it  best.  As  I  approached  it,  the  likeness  to  Henry 
gradually  faded,  and  what  was  Lonnicastle  in  the  distance  be- 


184  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

came  something  of  another  name  and  blood.  Another  nature 
mingled  strangely  with  that  to  which  I  was  consciously  kindred. 
Beneath  the  soft  veil  which  gentle  blood  had  thrown  over  the 
features,  there  couched  something  base  and  brutal.  Some 
where  in  the  family  history  of  the  person  it  represented  the 
spaniel  had  given  herself  to  the  wolf.  Sheathed  within  the  foot 
of  velvet  was  hidden  a  talon  of  steel.  Under  those  beautiful 
features  lay  the  capacity  of  cruelty  and  crime.  It  was  a  won 
derful  revelation,  and  it  increased  rather  than  lessened  the  fasci 
nation  which  the  picture  exerted  upon  me.  Not  until  an  hour 
had  passed  away,  and  I  knew  that  Jenks  had  returned  from  his 
errand,  did  I  silently  unlock  the  doors  of  the  dining-room  and 
go  to  my  chamber  for  study. 

When  the  dinner-hour  arrived,  I  was  served  alone.  Jenks 
had  set  the  table  without  discovering  the  returned  picture,  but 
in  one  of  the  pauses  of  his  service  he  started  and  turned  pale. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Jenks?"  I  said. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied,  "I  thought  it  was  burned.  It  ought 
to  be." 

It  was  the  first  intimation  that  I  had  ever  received  that  he 
knew  anything  about  the  subject  of  the  picture ;  but  I  asked 
him  no  more  questions,  first,  because  I  thought  it  would  vir 
tually  be  a  breach  of  the  confidence  which  its  owner  had  re 
posed  in  me,  and,  second,  because  I  was  so  sureof  Jenks's  reti 
cence  that  I  knew  I  had  nothing  to  gain  by  asking.  He  had 
kept  his  place  because  he  could  hold  his  tongue.  Still,  the 
fact  that  he  could  tell  me  all  I  wanted  to  know  had  the  power 
to  heighten  my  curiosity,  and  to  fill  me  with  a  discomfort  of 
which  I  was  ashamed. 

A  few  days  of  lonely  life  passed  away,  in  which,  for  a  de 
fense  against  my  loneliness,  I  devoted  myself  with  unusual  dili 
gence  to  study.  The  first  letter  I  received  from  Mrs.  Sander 
son  contained  the  good  news  that  her  strong  and  elastic  consti 
tution  had  responded  favorably  to  the  change  of  air  and  place. 
Indeed,  she  was  doing  so  well  that  she  had  concluded  to  stay 
by  the  sea  during  the  summer,  if  she  should  continue  to  find 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  185 

herself  improving  in  strength.  I  was  very  much  relieved,  for  in 
truth  I  had  no  wish  to  assume  the  cares  of  the  wealth  she 
would  leave  me.  I  was  grateful,  too,  to  find  that  I  had  a  genuine 
affection  for  her,  and  that  my  solicitude  was  not  altogether  selfish. 

One  warm  evening,  just  before  sunset,  I  took  a  chair  from 
the  hall  and  placed  it  upon  the  landing  of  the  steps  that  led 
from  the  garden  to  the  door,  between  the  sleeping  lions,  and 
sat  down  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air  of  the  coming  twilight.  I  had 
a  book  in  my  hand,  but  I  was  weary  and  listless,  and  sat  look 
ing  off  upon  the  town.  Presently  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
and  laughter  from  the  hill  below  me  ;  and  soon  there  came  in 
sight  a  little  group  whose  approach  made  my  heart  leap  with 
delight.  Henry,  Claire  and  Millie  were  coming  to  make  a  call 
upon  their  lonely  friend. 

I  greeted  them  heartily  at  a  distance,  and  Henry,  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  walking  between  the  two  girls,  sauntered  up 
to  the  house,  looking  it  over,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  very  carefully. 
Suddenly,  Millie  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  plucked  a 
flower  which  she  insisted  upon  placing  in  the  button-hole  of  his 
coat.  He  bent  to  her  while  she  fastened  it.  It  was  the  work 
of  an  instant,  yet  there  was  in  it  that  which  showed  me  that  the 
girl  was  fond  of  him,  and  that,  young  as  she  was,  she  pleased 
him.  I  was  in  a  mood  to  be  jealous.  The  thoughts  I  had  in 
dulged  in  while  looking  at  the  picture,  and  the  belief  that  Henry 
had  Claire's  heart  in  full  possession,  to  say  nothing  of  certain 
plans  of  my  own  with  regard  to  Millie,  reaching  far  into  the  fut 
ure — plans  very  vague  and  shadowy,  but  covering  sweet  pos 
sibilities — awoke  a  feeling  in  my  heart  towards  Henry  which  I 
am  sure  made  my  courtesies  seem  strangely  constrained. 

I  invited  the  group  into  the  house,  and  Claire  and  Millie  ac 
cepted  the  invitation  at  once.  Henry  hesitated,  and  finally 
said  that  he  did  not  care  to  go  in.  The  evening  was  so  pleas 
ant  that  he  would  sit  upon  the  steps  until  we  returned.  Re 
membering  his  repeated  refusals  to  go  home  with  me  from 
school,  and  thinking,  for  a  reason  which  I  could  not  have 
shaped  into  words,  that  I  did  not  wish  to  have  him  see  the  pict- 


1 86  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

ure  in  the  dining-room,  I  did  not  urge  him.  So  the  two  girls 
and  myself  went  in,  and  walked  over  the  house.  Millie  had 
been  there  before  with  her  mother,  but  it  was  the  first  time  that 
Claire's  maidenly  figure  had  ever  entered  the  door.  The 
dining-room  had  already  been  darkened  for  the  night,  and  we 
only  looked  in  and  took  a  hurried  glimpse  of  its  shadowy  furni 
ture,  and  left  it.  Both  the  girls  were  curious  to  see  my  room, 
and  to  that  we  ascended.  The  outlook  was  so  pleasant  and  the 
chairs  were  so  inviting  that,  after  looking  at  the  pictures  and 
the  various  tasteful  appointments  with  which  the  room  had  been 
furnished,  we  all  sat  down,  and  in  our  merry  conversation 
quite  forgot  Henry,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  waiting  for  us  to 
rejoin  him. 

Near  the  close  of  our  pleasant  session  I  was  conscious  that 
feet  were  moving  in  the  room  below.  Then  I  heard  the  sound 
of  opening  or  closing  shutters.  My  first  thought  was  that 
Jenks  had  come  in  on  some  errand.  Interrupted  in  this 
thought  by  the  conversation  in  progress,  the  matter  was  put 
out  of  my  mind  for  a  moment.  Then  it  returned,  and  as  1  re 
flected  that  Jenks  had  no  business  in  that  part  of  the  house  at 
that  hour,  I  became  uneasy. 

"  We  have  quite  forgotten  Henry,"  I  said  ;  and  we  all  rose 
to  our  feet  and  walked  down  stairs. 

Millie  was  at  the  foot  in  a  twinkling,  and  exclaimed  :  "Why, 
he  isn't  here  !  He  is  gone  ! " 

I  said  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  the  dining-room. 
Every  shutter  was  open,  and  there  stood  Henry  before  the  pict 
ure.  He  appeared  to  be  entirely  unconscious  of  my  entrance ; 
so,  stepping  up  behind  him,  I  put  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  said  :  "  Well,  how  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

He  started  as  if  I  had  struck  him,  trembled,  and  turned  pale. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  got  tired  with  waiting,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "  and 
so  came  in  to  explore,  you  know,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Quite  an  old 
curiosity-shop,  isn't  it?  Oh!  'How do  1  like  it?'  Yes,  quite 
a  picture — quite  a  picture,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

There  certainly  was  no  likeness  in  the  picture  to  the  Henry 


Stepping  up  behind  him,  I  put  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  said:   "Well, 
how  do  you  like  it." 

(p.  186.) 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  187 

who  stood  before  it  then.  Haggard,  vacant,  convulsed  with 
feeling  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  conceal,  he  stood  be 
fore  it  as  if  fastened  to  the  spot  by  a  relentless  spell.  I  took 
him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  into  the  open  air,  with  his  hollow- 
sounding  voice  and  his  forced,  mechanical  laugh  still  ringing  in 
my  ears.  The  girls  were  alarmed,  and  asked  him  if  he  were  ill. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  he  replied,  with  another  attempt  at  a 
laugh  which  made  me  shiver.  The  quick  instinct  of  his  com 
panions  recognized  the  fact  that  something  unpleasant  had  hap 
pened,  and  so,  overcoming  the  chill  which  his  voice  and  man 
ner  had  thrown  upon  them,  they  thanked  me  for  showing  them 
the  old  house,  and  declared  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  go 
home.  Bidding  me  a  hearty  good-night,  they  started  and  went 
out  of  the  gate.  Henry  lingered,  holding  my  hand  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then,  finding  it  impossible  to  shape  the  apology  he 
had  evidently  intended  to  make,  abruptly  left  me,  and  joined 
the  girls.  They  quickly  passed  out  of  sight,  Claire  tossing  me 
a  kiss  as  she  disappeared,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

I  was,  of  course,  more  mystified  than  ever.  I  did  not  think 
it  strange  or  ill-mannered  for  Henry  to  enter  the  dining-room 
unattended,  for  I  had  invited  him  in,  I  had  kept  him  long  wait 
ing,  and  there  was  no  one  to  be  disturbed  by  his  entrance,  as 
he  knew  ;  but  I  was  more  convinced  than  ever  that  there  was 
some  strange  connection  between  that  picture  and  his  destiny 
and  mine.  I  was  convinced,  too,  that  by  some  means  he  had 
recognized  the  fact  as  well  as  I.  I  tossed  upon  my  bed  until 
midnight  in  nervous  wakefulness,  thinking  it  over,  permitting 
my  imagination  to  construct  a  thousand  improbable  possibili 
ties,  and  chafing  under  the  pledge  that  forbade  me  to  ask  a 
question  of  friend  or  servant. 

it  was  a  week  before  I  saw  him  again,  and  then  I  found  him 
quite  self-possessed,  though  there  was  a  shadow  of  restraint 
upon  him.  No  allusion  was  made  to  the  incident  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  it  gradually  fell  back  into  a  memory,  among  the 
things  that  were,  to  be  recalled  years  afterward  in  the  grand 
crisis  of  my  personal  history. 


1 88  ArtJmr  Bonnicastle. 

Not  a  day  passed  away  in  which  Jenks  did  not  inquire  for 
the  health  of  "  the  mistress."  He  seemed  to  be  lost  without 
her,  and  to  feel  even  more  anxious  for  her  health  than  I  did. 
"  How  is  she  no\v?!>  and  "  When  does  she  say  she  is  coining 
back  ?  "  were  always  the  inquiries,  after  he  had  brought  me  a 
letter. 

One  day  I  said  to  him  :  "  I  thought  you  did  not  like  my  Aunt. 
You  were  always  wanting  to  get  away  from  her." 

"  1  don't  say  that  I  do  like  her,"  said  Jenks,  with  a  quizzical 
expression  of  countenance,  as  if  he  were  puzzled  to  know  ex 
actly  what  his  feelings  were,  "  but  the  fact  is  she's  a  good  woman 
to  get  away  from,  and  that's  half  the  fun  of  living.  When  she's 
here  I'm  always  thinking  of  leaving  her,  and  that  takes  up  the 
time  and  sets  me  contriving,  you  know." 

"  You  can't  sail  quite  as  much  as  you  used  to,"  I  said,  laugh 
ing. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I'm  getting  rather  old  for  the  sea,  and  I 
don't  know  but  thinking  of  the  salt  water  so  much  has  given 
me  the  rheumatism.  I'm  as  stiff  as  an  old  horse.  Any  way,  I 
can't  get  away  until  she  comes  back,  if  I  want  to  ever  so  much. 
I've  nothing  to  get  away  from." 

"  Yes,  Jenks,"  I  said,  "  you  and  your  mistress  are  both  get 
ting  old.  In  a  few  years  you'll  both  get  away,  and  you  will 
not  return.  Do  you  ever  think  of  what  will  come  after  ?" 

"That's  so,"  he  responded,  "and  the  thing  that  bothers  me 
is  that  I  can't  get  away  from  the  place  I  go  to,  whether  it's 
good  or  bad.  How  a  man  is  going  to  kill  time  without  some 
sort  of  contriving  to  get  into  a  better  place,  I  don't  know.  Do 
you  think  there's  really  such  a  place  as  heaven  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  No  offense,  sir,"  said  Jenks,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  some 
times  as  if  it  was  only  a  sort  of  make-believe  place,  that  peo 
ple  dream  about  just  to  pass  away  the  time.  They  go  to  meet 
ing,  and  pray  and  sing,  and  take  the  sacrament,  and  talk  about 
heaven  and  hell,  and  then  they  come  home  and  laugh  and  carry 
on  and  work  just  the  same  as  ever.  It  makes  a  nice  way  to 


ArtJmr  fionnicastle.  189 

pass  Sunday,  and  it  seems  to  me  just  about  the  same  thing  as 
sailing  on  an  Atlas.  One  day  they  make  believe  very  hard, 
and  the  next  it's  all  over  with.  Everybody  must  have  his  fun, 
and  everybody  has  his  own  way  of  getting  it.  Now  here's  this 
Miss  Lester  down  at  Mr.  Bradford's.  She's  got  no  end  of  a 
constitution,  and  takes  it  out  in  work.  She  goes  to  all  the 
prayer-meetings,  and  knits  piles  of  stockings  for  poor  people  ; 
but,  dear  me  !  she  has  to  do  something,  or  else  she  couldn't 
live.  So  she  tramps  out  in  all  sorts  of  weather,  and  takes  solid 
comfort  in  getting  wet  and  muddy,  and  amuses  herself  thinking 
she's  doing  good.  It's  just  so  with  the  stockings.  She  must 
knit  'em,  any  way,  and  so  she  plays  charity  with  'em.  I  reckon 
we're  all  a  good  deal  alike." 

"  No,  Jenks,"  I  said,  "  there's  really  and  truly  such  a  place 
as  heaven." 

"I  s'pose  there  is,"  he  responded,  "but  I  don't  see  what  I 
can  do  there.  I  can't  sing." 

"And  there's  another  place." 

"  I  s'pose  there  is — that's  what  they  say,  and  I  don't  see 
what  I  am  going  to  do  there,  for  I  don't  like  the  sort  of  people 
that  live  there.  I  never  had  anything  to  do  with  'em  here,  and 
I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  'em  anywhere.  I've  always 
kept  my  own  counsel  and  picked  my  own  company,  which  has 
been  mighty  small,  and  I  always  expect  to." 

These  last  remarks  of  Jenks  were  a  puzzle  to  me.  I  really 
did  not  know  what  to  say,  at  first,  but  there  came  back  to  me 
the  memory  of  one  of  our  early  conversations,  and  I  said  : 
"What  if  she  were  to  go  to  one  place  and  you  to  the  other?" 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  his  thin  lips  twitching  and  quivering, 
"I  shouldn't  be  any  worse  off  than  I  am  now.  She  went  to 
one  place  and  I  went  to  another  a  good  while  ago ;  but  do  you 
really  think  people  know  one  another  there  ?  " 

"  1  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  care  where  I  was,  if  I  could  be  with  her, 
and  everything  was  agreeable,"  said  Jenks. 

"  So  you  still  remember  her." 


190  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  How  do  you  s'pose  I  could  live  if  I  didn't  ?  " 

At  this  he  excitedly  unbuttoned  the  wristband  of  his  left 
arm,  and  pulled  up  his  sleeve,  and  there,  pricked  patiently  into 
the  skin,  after  the  manner  of  sailors,  were  the  two  names  in 
rude  letters:  "TiiEorniLus  JENKS  AND  JANE  WHITTLESEY." 

"  I  did  it  myself,"  said  Jenks.  "  Every  prick  of  the  needle 
hurt  me,  but  the  more  it  hurt  the  happier  I  was,  just  to  see 
the  two  names  together  where  no  man  could  rub  'em  out ;  and 
I  think  I  could  stand  'most  anything  else  for  the  sake  of  being 
with  her." 

I  was  much  impressed  by  this  revelation  of  the  inner  life  of 
the  simple  old  man,  and  the  frankness  with  which  he  had  given 
me  his  confidence.  Laboring  from  day  to  day,  year  after  year, 
in  a  position  from  which  he  had  no  hope  of  rising,  he  had  his 
separate  life  of  the  affections  and  the  imagination,  and  in  this 
he  held  all  his  satisfactions,  and  won  all  his  modest  mental  and 
spiritual  growth.  At  the  close  of  our  conversation  I  took  out 
my  watch,  and,  seeing  that  it  was  time  for  the  mail,  I  sent  him 
off  to  obtain  it.  When  he  returned,  he  brought  me  among 
other  letters  one  from  Mrs.  Sanderson.  He  had  placed  it  up'on 
the  top  of  the  package,  and,  when  he  had  handed  it  to  me,  he 
waited,  as  had  become  his  custom,  to  learn  the  news  from  his 
mistress. 

When  I  had  opened  the  letter  and  read  a  few  lines,  I  ex 
claimed  :  "Oh,  Jenks!  here's  some  great  news  for  you." 
And  then  I  read  from  the  letter  : 

"  My  physician  sas  that  I  must  have  a  daily  drive  upon  the  beach,  but 
I  really  do  not  feel  as  if  I  should  take  a  moment  of  comfort  without  my 
old  horse  and  carriage  and  my  old  driver.  ]f  you  can  manage  to  get  along 
for  two  or  three  weeks  with  the  cook,  who  is  entirely  able  to  take  all  the 
sen  ice  of  the  house  upon  her  hands,  you  may  send  Jenks  to  me  with  the 
horse  and  carriage.  The  road  is  very  heavy,  however,  and  it  is  best  for 
him  to  put  everything  on  the  Belle  of  Bradford,  and  come  with  it  him 
self.  The  Belle  touches  every  day  at  our  wharf,  and  the  horse  will  be 
ready  for  service  as  soon  as  he  lands." 

I  read  this  without  looking  at  Jenks's  face,  but  when  I  finished 


Arthur  Bonnicaslle.  191 

I  glanced  at  him,  expecting  to  see  him  radiant  with  delight 
I  was  therefore  surprised  to  find  him  pale  and  trembling  in 
every  fiber  of  his  frame. 

"  That's  just  like  an  old  woman,"  said  Jenks.  "  How  does 
she  s'pose  a  horse  is  going  to  sea  ?  What's  he  to  do  when  the 
steamer  rolls  ?  " 

"  Oh,  horses  are  very  fond  of  rolling,"  I  said,  laughing. 
"  All  he  will  have  to  do  will  be  to  lie  down  and  roll  all  the 
way,  without  straining  himself  for  it." 

"  And  how  does  she  s'pose  a  carriage  is  going  to  keep  right 
side  up  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  can  sit  in  it  and  hold  it  down." 

Jenks  looked  down  upon  his  thin  frame  and  slender  legs, 
and  shook  his  head.  "  If  there's  anything  that  I  hate,"  said 
he,  "  it's  a  steamboat.  I  think  it  will  scare  the  old  horse  to 
death.  They  whistle  and  toot,  and  blow  up  and  burn  up. 
Now,  don't  you  really  think— candid,  now— that  I'd  better 
drive  the  old  horse  down?  Don't  you  think  the  property'll 
be  safer?  She  never  can  get  another  horse  like  him.  She 
never'll  get  a  carriage  that  suits  her  half  as  well  as  that.  It 
don't  seem  to  me  as  if  I  could  take  the  responsibility  of  risking 
that  property.  She  left  it  in  my  hands.  '  Take  good  care  of 
the  old  horse,  Jenks,'  was  the  last  words  she  said  to  me  ;  and 
now  because  she's  an  old  woman,  and  does'n't  know  any  better, 
she  tells  me  to  put  him  on  a  steamboat,  where  he's  just  as 
likely  to  be  banged  about  and  have  his  ribs  broke  in,  or  be 
burned  up  or  blowed  up,  as  he  is  to  get  through  alive.  It  seems 
to  me  the  old  woman  is  out  of  her  head,  and  that  I  ought  to 
do  just  as  she  told  me  to  do  when  she  was  all  right.  'Take 
good  care  of  the  old  horse,  Jenks,'  was  the  last  words  she  said." 

The  old  man  was  excited  but  still  pale,  and  he  stood  waiting 
before  me  with  a  pitiful,  pleading  expression  upon  his  wizen 
features. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  I'm  afraid  we  shall  be  obliged  to  risk 
the  property,  Jenks,"  I  said.  "Mrs.  Sanderson  is  very  particu 
lar,  you  know,  about  having  all  her  orders  obeyed  to  the  letter. 


1 92  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

She  will  have  no  one  to  blame  bnt  herself  if  the  whole  estab 
lishment  goes  overboard,  and  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  miss 
this  chance  of  going  to  sea  at  her  expense  for  anything." 

Then  Jenks  resolutely  undertook  to  bring  his  mind  to  it. 
"  How  long  will  it  take?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  three  hours  or  so,"  I  replied  carelessly. 

"  Do  we  go  out  of  sight  of  land  ?  " 

"  No,  you  sail  down  the  river  a  few  miles,  then  you  strike  the 
ocean,  and  just  hug  the  shore  until  you  get  there,"  I  replied. 

"  Yes  ;  strike  the  ocean — hug  the  shore — "  he  mumbled  to 
himself,  looking  down  and  rubbing  the  bald  spot  on  the  top  of 
his  head.  "  Strike  the  ocean — hug  the  shore.  Three  hours — 
oh  !  do  you  know  whether  they  have  life-preservers  on  that 
steamboat  ?  " 

"  Stacks  of  them,"  I  replied.      "I've  seen  them  often." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  plan  to  slip  one  on  to  the  horse's 
neck  when  they  start  ?  He'll  think  it's  a  collar,  and  won't  be 
scared,  you  know ;  and  if  there  should  happen  to  be  any  trouble 
it  would  help  to  keep  his  nose  up." 

"  Capital  plan,"  I  responded. 

"  What  time  do  we  start?  " 

"At  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

Jenks  retired  with  the  look  and  bearing  of  a  man  who  had 
been  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  He  went  first  to  the  stable,  and 
made  all  the  necessary  arrangements  there,  and  late  into  the 
night  I  heard  him  moving  about  his  room.  I  presume  he  did 
not  once  close  his  eyes  in  sleep  that  night.  I  was  exceedingly 
amused  by  his  nervousness,  though  I  would  not  have  intimated 
to  him  that  I  had  any  doubt  of  his  courage,  for  the  world.  He 
was  astir  at  an  early  hour  in  the  morning ;  and  breakfast  was 
upon  the  table  while  yet  the  early  birds  were  singing. 

"  You  will  have  a  lovely  day,  Jenks,"  I  said,  as  he  handed 
me  my  coffee. 

As  he  bent  to  set  the  cup  beside  my  plate,  there  came  close 
to  my  ear  a  curious,  crepitant  rustle.  "  What  have  you  got 
about  you,  Jenks?"  I  inquired. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  193 

He  made  a  sickly  attempt  to  smile,  and  then  pulling  open 
the  bosom  of  his  shirt,  displayed  a  collapsed,  dry  bladder,  with 
a  goose-quill  in  the  neck  ready  for  its  inflation. 

"That's  a  capital  idea,  Jenks,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  and  he 
showed  me  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  full  of  corks. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  restrain  my  laughter  any  longer. 

"  Number  one,  you  know,"  said  Jenks,  buttoning  up  his 
coat.  "  Number  one,  and  a  stiff  upper  lip." 

"  You're  a  brave  old  fellow,  any  way,  Jenks,  and  you're  going 
to  have  the  best  time  you  ever  had.  I  envy  you." 

I  drove  down  to  the  boat  with  him,  to  make  the  arrangements 
for  the  shipment,  and  saw  him  and  the  establishment  safely  on 
board.  The  bottom  of  the  carriage  was  loaded  with  appliances 
for  securing  his  personal  safety  in  case  of  an  accident,  includ 
ing  a  billet  of  wood,  which  he  assured  me  was  to  be  used  for 
blocking  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  in  case  of  a  storm. 

I  bade  him  good-by  at  last,  and  went  on  shore,  where  I  waited 
to  see  the  steamer  wheel  into  the  stream.  The  last  view  I  had 
of  the  old  man  showed  that  he  had  relieved  himself  of  hat  and 
boots,  and  placed  himself  in  light  swimming  order.  In  the  place 
of  the  former  he  had  tied  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief  around  his 
head,  and  for  the  latter  he  had  substituted  slippers.  He  had 
entirely  forgotten  me  and  the  existence  of  such  a  town  as  Brad 
ford.  Looking  dreamily  down  the  river,  out  towards  that  mys 
terious  sea,  on  which  his  childish  imagination  had  dwelt  so  long, 
and  of  which  he  stood  in  such  mortal  fear,  he  passed  out  of 
sight. 

The  next  evening  I  heard  from  him  in  a  characteristic  letter. 
It  was  dated  at  "  The  Glaids,"  and  read  thus  :— 

"  The  Bell  is  a  noble  vessel. 
"  The  horse  and  carridge  is  saif. 
"  She  welcomed  me  from  the  see. 
"It  seems  to  me  I  am  in  the  moon. 
"  Once  or  twise  she  roaled  ferel'ully. 
"Hut  she  rited  and  drove  on. 
9 


194  Arthur  Bonnicastle* 

"I  count  nineteen  distant  sales. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  kind  as  not  to  menshun  the  blader. 
"  The  waves  roll  in  and  rore  all  night. 
"  The  see  is  a  tremenduous  thing,  and  the  atlus  is  nowhare. 
"From  an  old  Tarr 

"THEOPHILUS  JENKS." 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Henry  and  I  made  a  flying  trip  to 
New  Haven,  passed  our  examination  for  admission  to  the  fresh 
man  class,  and  in  the  weeks  that  followed  gave  ourselves  up  to 
recreations  which  a  debilitating  summer  and  debilitating  labor 
had  made  necessary. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MRS.  SANDERSON   TAKES    A  COMPANION   AND    I  GO   TO  COLLEGE. 

DURING  the  closing  days  of  summer,  I  was  surprised  to  meet 
in  the  street,  walking  alone,  the  maid  who  accompanied  Mrs. 
Sanderson  to  the  sea-side.  She  courtesied  quite  profoundly 
to  me,  after  the  manner  of  the  time,  and  paused  as  though  she 
wished  to  speak. 

"  Well,  Jane,"  I  said,  "  how  came  you  here  ?  " 

She  colored,  and  her  eyes  flashed  angrily  as  she  replied  : 
"  Mrs.  Sanderson  sent  me  home." 

"  If  you  are  willing,  I  should  like  to  have  you  tell  me  all 
about  it,"  I  said. 

"  It  is  all  of  a  lady  Mrs.  Sanderson  met  at  the  hotel,"  she 
responded, — "a  lady  with  a  pretty  face  and  line  manners,  who 
is  as  poor  as  I  am,  I  warrant  ye.  Mighty  sly  and  quiet  she 
was ;  and  your  aunt  took  to  her  from  the  first  day.  They  walked 
together  every  day  till  Jenks  came,  and  then  they  rode 
together,  and  she  was  always  doing  little  things  for  your  aunt, 
and  at  last  they  left  me  out  entirely,  so  that  I  had  nothing  in 
the  world  to  do  but  to  sit  and  sew  all  day  on  just  nothing 
at  all.  The  lady  read  to  her,  too,  out  of  the  newspapers  and  the 
books,  in  a  very  nice  way,  and  made  herself  agreeable  with  her 
pretty  manners  until  it  was  nothing  but  Mrs.  Belden  in  the 
morning,  and  Mrs.  Belden  at  night,  and  Mrs.  Belden  all  the 
time,  and  I  told  your  aunt  that  I  didn't  think  I  was  needed 
any  more,  and  she  took  me  up  mighty  short  and  said  she  didn't 
think  I  was,  and  that  I  could  go  home  if  I  wished  to  ;  and 
I  wouldn't  stay  a  moment  after  that,  but  just  packed  up  and 
came  home  in  the  next  boat." 

The  disappointed  and  angry  girl  rattled  off  her  story  as  if 


196  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

she  liad  told  it  forty  times  to  her  forty  friends,  and  learned  it 
all  by  rote. 

"  I  am  sony,  Jane,  that  you  have  been  disappointed," 
I  responded,  "  but  is  my  aunt  well  ?  " 

"  Just  as  well  as  she  ever  was  in  her  life." 

"But  how  will  she  get  home  without  you?"  I  inquired, 
quite  willing  to  hear  her  talk  farther. 

"  She'll  manage  the  same  as  she  does  now,  faith.  You  may 
wager  your  eyes  the  lady  will  come  with  her.  You  never 
saw  the  like  of  the  thickness  there  is  between  'em." 

"Is  she  old  or  young?"  I  inquired. 

"  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  she  replied,  "  though  I 
think  she's  older  than  she  looks.  Oh,  she's  a  sharp  one — she's 
a  sharp  one  !  You'll  see  her.  There  was  a  world  of  quiet 
talk  going  on  between  'em,  when  I  couldn't  hear.  They've 
been  at  it  for  more  than  a  month,  and  it  means  something.  I 
think  she's  after  the  old  lady's  money." 

I  laughed,  and  again  telling  Jane  that  I  was  sorry  for  her 
disappointment,  and  expressing  the  hope  that  it  would  all  turn 
out  well,  parted  with  her. 

Here  was  some  news  that  gave  me  abundant  food  for  reflec 
tion  and  conjecture.  Not  a  breath  of  all  this  had  come  to 
me  on  the  wings  of  the  frequent  missives  that  had  reached  me 
from  Mrs.  Sanderson's  hand  ;  but  I  had  an  unshaken  faith 
in  her  discretion.  The  assurance  that  she  was  well  was  an 
assurance  that  she  was  quite  able  to  take  care  of  herself.  It 
was  natural  that  the  maid  should  have  been  irate  and  jealous, 
and  I  did  not  permit  her  words  to  prejudice  me  against  Airs. 
Sanderson's  new  friend.  Yet,  I  was  curious,  and  not  quite 
comfortable,  with  the  thoughts  of  her,  and  permitted  my  mind 
to  frame  and  dwell  upon  the  possible  results  of  the  new  con 
nection. 

It  was  a  week  after  this  meeting,  perhaps,  that  I  received 
a  note  from  Mrs.  Sanderson,  announcing  the  confirmation  of 
her  health,  stating  that  she  shonlcl  bring  a  lady  with  her  on  her 
return  to  Bradford,  and  giving  directions  for  the  preparation 


ArtJiur  Bonnicastle.  197 

of  a  room  for  her  accommodation.  It  would  not  have  been 
like  my  aunt  to  make  explanations  in  a  letter,  so  that  I  was 
not  disappointed  in  finding  none. 

At  last  I  received  a  letter  informing  me  that  the  mistress  of 
The  Mansion  would  return  to  her  home  on  the  following  day. 
I  was  early  at  the  wharf  to  meet  her — so  early  that  the 
steamer  had  but  just  showed  her  smoking  chimneys  far  down 
the  river.  As  the  boat  approached,  I  detected  two  female 
figures  upon  the  hurricane  deck  which  I  was  not  long  in 
concluding  to  be  my  aunt  and  her  new  friend.  Jenks,  in  his 
impatience  to  get  quickly  on  shore,  had  loosed  his  horse  from 
the  stall,  and  stood  holding  him  by  the  bridle,  near  the  carriage, 
upon  the  forward  deck.  He  saw  me  and  swung  his  hat,  in 
token  of  his  gladness  that  the  long  trial  was  over. 

The  moment  the  boat  touched  the  wharf  I  leaped  on  board, 
mounted  to  the  deck,  and,  in  an  impulse  of  real  gladness 
and  gratitude,  embraced  my  aunt.  For  a  moment  her  com 
panion  was  forgotten :  then  Mrs.  Sanderson  turned  and  presented 
her.  I  did  not  wonder  that  she  was  agreeable  to  Mrs.  San 
derson,  for  I  am  sure  that  no  one  could  have  looked  into  her 
face  and  received  her  greeting  without  being  pleased  with  her. 
She  was  dressed  plainly  but  with  great  neatness ;  and  every 
thing  in  her  look  and  manner  revealed  the  well-bred  woman. 
The  whole  expression  of  her  personality  was  one  of  refinement. 
She  looked  at  me  with  a  pleased  and  inquiring  gaze  which 
quite  charmed  me — a  gaze  that  by  some  subtle  influence 
inspired  me  to  special  courtesy  toward  her.  When  the  carriage 
had  been  placed  on  shore,  and  had  been  made  ready  for  the 
ride  homeward,  I  found  myself  under  the  impulse  to  be  as 
polite  to  her  as  to  my  aunt. 

As  I  looked  out  among  the  loungers  who  always  attended 
the  arrival  of  the  Belle,  as  a  resort  of  idle  amusement,  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Henry.  Our  eyes  met  for  an  instant,  and  I 
detected  a  look  of  eager  interest  upon  his  face.  My  recognition  _ 
seemed  to  quench  the  look  at  once,  and  he  turned  abruptly 
on  his  heel  and  walked  away.  It  was  not  like  him  to  be 


198  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

among  a  company  of  idlers,  and  I  knew  that  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Sanderson  could  not  have  attracted  him.  It  was  an  incident, 
however,  of  no  significance  save  as  it  was  interpreted  by  sub 
sequent  events  which  wait  for  record. 

Airs.  Sanderson  was  quite  talkative  on  the  way  home,  in 
pointing  out  to  her  new  companion  the  objects  of  interest  pre 
sented  by  the  thriving  little  city,  and  when  she  entered  her 
house  seemed  like  her  former  self.  She  was  like  the  captain 
of  a  ship  who  had  returned  from  a  short  stay  on  shore,  having 
left  the  mate  in  charge.  All  command  and  direction  returned 
to  her  on  the  instant  she  placed  her  foot  upon  the  threshold. 
She  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  seemed  to  look  fonvard  upon 
life  more  hopefully  than  she  had  done  for  a  long  time  previ 
ous.  Mrs.  Beklen  was  pleased  with  the  house,  delighted  with 
her  room,  and  charmed  with  all  the  surroundings  of  the  place ; 
and  I  could  see  that  Mrs.  Sanderson  was  more  than  satisfied 
with  the  impression  which  her  new  friend  had  made  upon  me. 
I  remember  with  how  much  interest  I  took  her  from  window  to 
window  to  show  her  the  views  which  the  house  commanded, 
and  how  much  she  gratified  me  by  her  hearty  appreciation  of 
my  courtesy  and  of  the  home  to  which  circumstances  had 
brought  her. 

I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  a  woman  to  whom  I  could  yield 
my  confidence,  and  who  was  wholly  capable  of  understanding 
me  and  of  giving  me  counsel.  I  saw,  too,  that  the  old  home 
would  become  a  very  different  place  to  rne  from  what  it  ever 
had  been  before,  with  her  gracious  womanliness  within  it.  It 
was  love  with  me  at  first  sight,  as  it  had  been  with  my  more 
critical  aunt. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Sanderson  called  me  into  her  little 
library  and  told  me  the  whole  story  of  her  new  acquaintance. 
She  had  been  attracted  to  her  by  some  heartily-rendered  cour 
tesy  when  she  found  herself  among  strangers,  feeble  and  alone, 
and  had  learned  from  her  that  she  was  without  relatives  and  a 
home  of  her  own.  They  had  long  conversations,  and  were  led, 
step  by  step,  to  a  mutual  revelation  of  personal  wishes  and 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  199 

needs,  until  it  was  understood  between  them  that  one  was  in. 
want  of  a  companion  in  her  old  age,  and  the  other  was  in  want 
of  a  home,  for  which  she  was  willing  to  give  service  and  society. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  my  aunt,  "  to  realize  that  I  am  old,  and 
that  it  is  not  right  for  me  to  stay  in  the  house  alone  as  I  have 
done  ;  and  now  that  you  are  to  be  absent  for  so  long  a  time,  I 
shall  need  society  and  help.  I  am  sure  that  Mrs.  Belden  is  the 
right  woman  for  me.  Although  she  will  be  in  a  certain  sense  a 
dependent,  she  deserves  and  will  occupy  the  place  of  a  friend. 
I  do  not  think  I  can  be  mistaken  in  her,  and  I  believe  that  you 
will  like  her  as  well  as  I  do." 

I  frankly  told  my  aunt  of  the  pleasant  impression  the  lady 
had  made  upon  me,  and  expressed  my  entire  satisfaction  with 
the  arrangement ;  so  Mrs.  Belden  became,  in  a  day,  a  member 
of  our  home,  and,  by  the  ready  adaptiveness  of  her  nature, 
fitted  into  her  new  place  and  relations  without  a  jar. 

On  the  same  day  in  which  Mrs.  Sanderson  and  I  held  our 
conversation,  I  found  myself  alone  with  Mrs.  Belden,  who  led 
me  to  talk  of  myself,  my  plans,  and  my  associates.  I  told  her 
the  history  of  my  stay  at  The  Bird's  Nest,  and  talked  at  length 
of  my  companion  there.  She  listened  to  all  1  had  to  say  with 
interest,  and  questioned  me  particularly  about  Henry.  She 
thought  a  young  man's  intimate  companions  had  much  to  do 
with  his  safety  and  progress,  and  was  glad  to  learn  that  my 
most  intimate  friend  was  all  that  he  ought  to  be. 

"You  must  never  mention  him  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,"  I  said, 
"  for  he  offended  her  by  not  accepting  her  invitation  to  spend 
his  vacations  with  me." 

"  I  shall  never  do  it,  Arthur,"  she  responded.  "  You  can 
always  rely  upon  my  discretion." 

"  We  are  to  be  chums  at  college,"  I  said. 

"How  will  you  manage  it  without  offending  your  aunt?" 
she  inquired. 

"Oh,  she  knows  that  I  like  him  ;  so  we  agree  not  to  men 
tion  his  name.  She  asks  me  no  questions,  and  I  say  nothing. 
Besides,  I  think  she  knows  something  else  and — "  I  hesitated. 


2oo  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"And  what?"  inquired  Mrs.  Belden,  smiling. 

"  I  think  she  knows  that  he  is  fond  of  my  sister  Claire,"  I 
said. 

Mrs.  Belden  gave  a  visible  start,  but  checking  herself,  said, 
coolly  enough,  "Well,  is  he?" 

"  I  think  so,"  I  answered.  "  Indeed,  I  think  they  are  very 
fond  of  one  another." 

Then,  at  the  lady's  request,  I  told  her  all  about  my  sister— 
her  beauty,  her  importance  in  my  father's  house,  and  her  ac 
complishments.  She  listened  with  great  interest,  and  said  that 
she  hoped  she  should  make  her  acquaintance. 

"If  you  are  to  be  tied  to  my  aunt  in  the  society  you  meet 
here  you  will  be  pretty  sure  not  to  know  her,"  I  responded. 
"  My  father  is  Mrs.  Sanderson's  tenant,  and  she  has  very  strict 
notions  in  regard  to  poor  people,  and  especially  in  regard  to 
those  who  occupy  her  houses.  She  has  never  invited  a  mem 
ber  of  my  family  into  her  house,  and  she  never  will.  She  has 
been  very  kind  to  me,  but  she  has  her  own  way  about  it." 

"  Yes,  I  see  ;  but  I  shall  meet  your  sister  in  some  way,  I 
know,  if  I  remain  here,"  Mrs.  Belden  replied. 

I  had  never  seen  Jenks  so  happy  as  he  appeared  the  next  day 
after  his  arrival.  He  had  been  elevated  immensely  by  his  voy 
age  and  adventures,  and  had  been  benefited  by  the  change  quite 
as  much  as  his  mistress.  He  went  about  humming  and  growl 
ing  to  himself  in  the  old  way,  seeking  opportunities  to  pour  into 
my  amused  ears  the  perils  he  had  encountered  and  escaped. 
There  had  been  a  terrific  "  lurch  "  on  one  occasion,  when  every 
body  staggered  ;  and  a  suspicious  sail  once  "hove  in  sight" 
which  turned  out  to  be  a  schooner  loaded  with  lumber ;  and 
there  were  white  caps  tossing  on  a  reef  which  the  captain 
skillfully  avoided ;  and  there  was  a  "  tremenduous  ground  swell  " 
dining  a  portion  of  the  homeward  passage  which  he  delighted 
to  dwell  upon. 

But  Jenks  was  in  no  way  content  until  I  had  pointed  out  his 
passage  to  him  on  the  map.  When  he  comprehended  the 
humiliating  fact  that  he  had  sailed  only  half  an  inch  on  the  larg- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  201 

est  map  of  the  region  he  possessed,  and  that  on  the  map  of 
the  world  the  river  by  which  he  passed  to  the  sea  was  not  large 
enough  to  be  noticed,  he  shook  his  head. 

"  It's  no  use,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  thought  I  could  do  it, 
but  I  can't.  The  world  is  a  big  thing.  Don't  you  think,  your 
self,  it  would  be  more  convenient  if  it  were  smaller?  I  can't 
see  the  use  of  such  an  everlasting  lot  of  water.  A  half  an  inch ! 
My  !  think  of  sailing  a  foot  and  a  half!  I  give  it  up." 

"  But  you  really  have  been  far,  far  away  upon  the  billow," 
I  said  encouragingly. 

"Yes,  that's  so — that's  so — that  is  so,"  he  responded,  nod 
ding  his  head  emphatically:  "and  I've  ploughed  the  waves, 
and  struck  the  sea,  and  hugged  the  shore,  and  embarked  and 
prepared  for  a  storm,  and  seen  the  white  caps,  and  felt  a  ground 
swell,  and  got  through  alive,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  I  tell 
you,  that  day  when  we  swung  into  the  stream  I  didn't  know 
whether  I  was  on'  my  head  or  my  heels.  I  kept  saying  to  my 
self:  '  Theophilus  Jenks,  J£  this  you?  Who's  your  father  and 
who's  your  mother  and  who's  your  Uncle  David  ?  Do  you 
know  what  you're  up  to?'  I'll  bet  you  can't  tell  what  else  I 
said  ?  " 

"  No,  I'll  not  try,  but  you'll  tell  me,"  I  responded. 

"Well,  'twas  a  curious  thing  to  say,  and  I  don't  know  but  it 
was  wicked  to  talk  out  of  the  Bible,  but  it  came  to  me  and 
came  out  of  me  before  I  knew  it." 

"  What  was  it,  Jenks  ?     I'm  curious  to  know." 

"  Says  I  :  '  Great  is  Diany  of  the  Thesians  ! '  " 

I  laughed  heartily,  and  told  Jenks  that  in  my  opinion  he 
couldn't  have  done  better. 

"  That  wasn't  all,"  said  Jenks.  "  I  said  it  more  than  forty 
times.  A  fellow  must  say  something  when  he  gets  full,  and  if 
he  doesn't  swear,  what  is  he  going  to  do,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
So  always  when  I  found  myself  running  over,  I  said  '  Great  is 
Diany  of  the  Thesians,'  and  that's  the  way  I  spilt  myself  all 
the  way  clown." 

It  was  a  great  comfort  to  me,  on  the  eve  of  my  departure,  to 
9* 


2O2  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

feel  that  the  t\vo  lives  which  had  been  identified  with  my  new 
home,  and  had  made  it  what  it  had  been  to  me,  were  likely  to 
be  spared  for  some  years  longer — spared,  indeed,  until  I  should 
return  to  take  up  my  permanent  residence  at  The  Mansion. 
Mrs.  Belden's  presence,  too,  was  reassuring.  It  helped  to  give 
a  look  of  permanence  to  a  home  which  seemed  more  and  more, 
as  the  years  went  by,  to  be  built  of  very  few  and  frail  materials. 
1  learned  almost  at  once  to  identify  her  with  my  future,  and  to 
associate  her  with  all  my  plans  for  coming  life.  Jf  my  aunt 
should  die,  I  determined  that  Mrs.  Belden  should  remain. 

There  was  one  fact  which  gave  me  surprise  and  annoyance, 
viz.,  that  both  my  father  and  Mr.  Bradford  regarded  the  four 
years  that  lay  immediately  before  me  as  the  critical  years  of  my 
history.  Whenever  I  met  them,  I  found  that  my  future  was 
much  upon  their  minds,  and  that  my  experiences  of  the  previ 
ous  winter  were  not  relied  upon  by  either  of  them  as  sufficient 
guards  against  the  temptations  to  which  I  was  about  to  be  sub 
jected.  They  knew  that  for  many  reasons,  growing  out  of  the 
softening  influence  of  age  and  of  apprehended  helplessness  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Sanderson,  she  had  become  very  indulgent  to 
wards  me,  and  had  ceased  to  scan  with  her  old  closeness  my 
expenditures  of  money — that,  indeed,  she  had  a  growing  pride 
in  me  and  fondness  for  me  which  prompted  her  to  give  me  all 
the  money  that  might  be  desirable  in  sustaining  me  in  the  po 
sition  of  a  rich  young  gentleman.  Even  Mr.  Bird  came  all  the 
way  from  Hillsborough  to  see  his  boys,  as  he  called  Henry  and 
myself.  He,  too,  was  anxious  about  me,  and  did  not  leave 
me  until  he  had  pointed  out  the  mistakes  I  should  be  likely  to 
make  and  exhorted  me  to  prove  myself  a  man,  and  to  remember 
what  he  and  dear  Mrs.  Bird  expected  of  me. 

These  things  surprised  and  annoyed  me,  because  they  indi 
cated  a  solicitude  which  must  have  been  based  upon  suspicions 
of  my  weakness,  yet  these  three  men  were  all  wise.  What 
could  it  mean  ?  I  learned  afterwards.  They  had  seen  enough 
of  life  to  know  that  when  a  young  man  meets  the  world,  tempta 
tion  comes  to  him,  and  always  seeks  and  finds  the  point  in  his 


Arthur  Bannicastle.  203 

character  at  which  it  may  enter.  They  did  not  know  where 
that  point  was  in  me,  but  they  knew  it  was  somewhere,  and 
that  my  ready  sympathy  would  be  my  betrayer,  unless  I  should 
be  on  my  guard. 

I  spent  an  evening  with  Henry  in  my  father's  family,  and 
recognized,  in  the  affectionate  paternal  eye  that  followed  me 
everywhere,  the  old  love  which  knew  no  diminution.  I  believe 
there  was  no  great  and  good  deed  which  my  fond  father  did  not 
deem  me  capable  of  performing,  and  that  he  had  hung  the 
sweetest  and  highest  hopes  of  his  life  upon  me.  He  was  still 
working  from  day  to  day  to  feed,  shelter  and  clothe  his  depend 
ent  flock,  but  he  looked  for  his  rewards  not  to  them  but  to  me. 
The  noble  life  which  had  been  possible  to  him,  under  more 
favorable  circumstances,  he  expected  to  live  in  me.  For  this 
he  had  sacrificed  my  society,  and  suffered  the  pain  of  witness 
ing  the  transfer  of  my  affections  and  interests  to  another  home. 

On  the  day  before  that  fixed  for  my  departure,  a  note  was 
received  at  The  Mansion  inviting  us  all  to  spend  the  evening 
at  Mrs.  Bradford's.  The  good  lady  in  her  note  of  invitation 
stated  that  she  should  be  most  happy  to  see  Mrs.  Sanderson, 
and  though  she  hardly  expected  her  to  break  her  rule  of  not 
leaving  her  house  in  the  evening,  she  hoped  that  her  new  com 
panion,  Mrs.  Belden,  would  bear  me  company,  and  so  make 
the  acquaintance  of  her  neighbors.  My  aunt  read  the  note  to 
Mrs.  Belden,  and  said  :  "  Of  course  I  shall  not  go,  and  you 
will  act  your  own  pleasure  in  the  matter."  Hoping  that  the 
occasion  would  give  me  an  opportunity  to  present  my  friend 
and  my  sister  to  Mrs.  Belden,  I  urged  her  to  go  with  me,  and 
she  at  last  consented  to  do  so. 

I  had  strongly  desired  to  see  my  friend  Millie  once  more,  and 
was  delighted  with  the  opportunity  thus  offered.  The  day  was 
one  of  busy  preparation,  and  Mrs.  Belden  was  dressed  and 
ready  to  go  when  I  came  clown  from  my  toilet.  As  we  walked 
down  the  hill  together  toward  Mr.  Bradford's  house,  she  said  : 
"Arthur,  I  have  been  into  society  so  little  during  the  last  few 
years  that  I  feel  very  uneasy  over  this  affair.  Indeed,  every 


204  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

nerve  in  my  body  is  trembling  now."  I  laughed,  and  told  her  she 
was  going  among  people  who  would  make  her  at  home  at  once 
— people  whom  she  would  soon  learn  to  love  and  confide  in. 

I  expected  to  see  Henry  and  Claire,  and  I  was  not  disap 
pointed.  After  greeting  my  hearty  host  and  lovely  hostess,  and 
presenting  Mrs.  Belden,  I  turned  to  Henry,  who,  with  a  strange 
pallor  upon  his  face,  grasped  and  fairly  ground  my  hand  within 
his  own.  He  made  the  most  distant  of  bows  to  the  strange 
lady  at  rny  side,  who  looked  as  ghost-like  at  the  instant  as  him 
self.  The  thought  instantaneously  crossed  my  mind  that  he 
had  associated  her  with  Mrs.  Sanderson,  against  whom  I  knew 
he  entertained  the  most  bitter  dislike.  He  certainly  could  not 
have  appeared  more  displeased  had  he  been  compelled  to  a  mo 
ment's  courtesy  toward  the  old  lady  herself.  When  Mrs.  Bel- 
den  and  Claire  met,  it  was  a  different  matter  altogether. 
There  was  a  mutual  and  immediate  recognition  of  sympathy 
between  them.  Mrs.  Belden  held  Claire's  hand,  and  stood  and 
chatted  with  her  until  her  self-possession  returned.  Henry 
watched  the  pair  with  an  absorbed  and  anxious  look,  as  if  he 
expected  his  beloved  was  in  some  way  to  be  poisoned  by  the 
breath  of  her  new  acquaintance. 

At  last,  in  the  general  mingling  of  voices  in  conversation 
and  laughter,  both  Mrs.  Belden  and  Henry  regained  their 
usual  manner ;  and  the  fusion  of  the  social  elements  present 
became  complete.  As  the  little  reunion  was  given  to  Henry 
and  myself,  in  token  of  interest  in  our  departure,  that  departure 
was  the  topic  of  the  evening  upon  every  tongue.  We  talked 
about  it  while  at  our  tea,  and  there  were  many  sportive  specu 
lations  upon  the  possible  transformations  in  character  and 
bearing  which  the  next  four  years  would  effect  in  us.  As  we 
came  out  of  the  tea-room  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Belden  and  Claire 
still  clung  to  each  other.  After  a  while  Henry  joined  them, 
and  I  could  see,  as  both  looked  up  into  his  face  with  amused 
interest,  that  he  was  making  rapid  amends  for  the  coolness 
with  which  he  had  greeted  the  stranger.  Then  Mr.  Bradford 
went  and  took  Claire  away,  and  Mrs.  Belden  and  Henry  sat 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  205 

down  by  themselves  and  had  a  long  talk  together.  All  this 
pleased  me,  and  I  did  nothing  to  interfere  with  their  tete-ti-tete ; 
and  all  this  I  saw  from  the  corner  to  which  Millie  and  I  had 
retired  to  have  our  farewell  talk. 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  make  ? "  said  Millie,  curiously, 
continuing  the  drift  of  the  previous  conversation. 

"  I  told  Mrs.  Sanderson,  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  that  I 
expected  to  make  a  man,"  I  answered;  "and  now  please  tell 
me  what  you  expect  to  make." 

"  A  woman,  I  suppose,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  sigh. 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  sad  about  it,"  I  responded. 

"  I  am."  And  she  looked  off  as  if  reflecting  upon  the  bitter 
prospect. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  men  and  women  are  so  different  from  children,"  she 
said.  "One  of  these  years  you'll  come  back  with  grand  airs, 
and  whiskers  on  your  face,  and  you  will  find  me  grown  up, 
with  a  long  dress  on  ;  and  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  like  you  as  well 
as  I  do  now,  and  that  you  will  like  somebody  a  great  deal  bet 
ter  than  you  do  me." 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  like  one  another  a  great  deal  better  than 
we  do  now,"  I  said. 

"It's  only  a  perhaps,"  she  responded.  "No,  we  shall  be 
new  people  then.  Just  think  of  my  father  being  a  little  boy 
once  !  I  presume  I  shouldn't  have  liked  him  half  as  well  as  I 
do  you.  As  likely  as  any  way  he  was  a  plague  and  a  pester." 

"  But  we  are  growing  into  new  people  all  the  time,"  I  said. 
"  Your  father  was  a  young  man  when  he  was  married,  and  now 
he  is  another  man,  but  your  mother  is  just  as  fond  of  him  as 
she  ever  was,  isn't  she?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  that's  a  fact;  I  guess  she  is  indeed  !  She  just 
adores  him,  out  and  out." 

"Well,  then,  what's  to  hinder  other  people  from  liking  one 
another  right  along,  even  if  they  are  changing  all  the  time  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  she  replied  quickly.     "I  see  it :  I  understand. 


206  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

There's  something  that  cloes'n't  change,  isn't  there?  or  some 
thing  that  need' n't  change  :  which  is  it?  " 

"  Whatever  it  is,  Millie,"  I  answered,  "  we  will  not  let  it 
change.  We'll  make  up  our  minds  about  it  right  here.  When 
I  come  back  to  stay,  I  will  be  Arthur  Bonnicastle  and  you  shall 
be  Millie  Bradford,  just  the  same  as  now,  and  we'll  sit  and  talk 
in  this  corner  just  as  we  do  now,  and  there  shall  be  no  Mister 
and  Miss  between  us." 

Millie  made  no  immediate  response,  but  looked  off  again  in 
her  wise  way,  as  if  searching  for  something  that  eluded  and 
puzzled  her.  I  watched  her  admiringly  while  she  paused.  At 
last  a  sudden  flash  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  to  me 
and  said  :  "  Oh,  Arthur!  I've  found  it !  As  true  as  you  live, 
I've  found  it !  " 

"  Found  what.  Millie?" 

"The  thing  that  does'n't  change,  or  need'n't  change,"  she 
replied. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Why,  it's  everything.  When  I  used  to  dress  up  my  little 
doll  and  make  a  grand  lady  of  her,  there  was  the  same  doll, 
inside,  after  all !  Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see." 

"  And  you  know  how  they  are  building  a  great  church  right 
over  the  little  one  down  on  the  corner,  without  moving  a  single 
stone  of  the  chapel.  The  people  go  to  the  big  church  every 
Sunday,  but  all  the  preaching  and  singing  are  in  the  chapel. 
Don't  you  see  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see,  Millie,"  I  answered;  "but  I  don't  think  I 
should  see  it  without  your  eyes  to  help  me.  1  am  to  build  a 
man  and  you  are  to  build  a  woman  right  over  the  boy  and  girl, 
without  touching  the  boy  and  girl  at  all ;  and  so,  when  we  come 
together  again,  we  can  walk  right  into  the  little  chapel,  and  find 
ourselves  at  home." 

"Isn't  that  lovely  !"  exclaimed  Millie.  "I  can  see  things, 
and  you  can  make  things.  I  couldn't  have  said  that — about 
our  going  into  the  little  chapel,  you  know." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  207 

"And  I  couldn't  have  said  it  if  you  hadn't  found  the  chapel 
for  me,"  I  responded. 

"  Why,  doesn't  it  seem  as  if  we  belonged  together,  and  had 
been  separated  in  some  way  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Bradford  rose  and  came  near  us  to  get 
a  book.  He  smiled  pleasantly  upon  us  while  we  looked  up  to 
him,  pausing  in  our  conversation.  When  he  had  gone  back 
and  resumed  his  seat,  Millie  said  : 

"  There's  a  big  church  over  two  chapels.  He  has  a  young 
man  in  him  and  a  boy  besides.  The  boy  plays  with  me  and  un 
derstands  me,  and  the  young  man  is  dead  in  love  with  mamma, 
and  the  old  man  takes  care  of  us  both,  and  does  everything. 
Isn't  it  splendid  !  " 

Ah,  Millie  !  I  have  heard  many  wise  men  and  wise 
women  talk  philosophy,  but  never  one  so  wise  as  you  ;  and  I 
have  never  seen  a  young  man  whose  growth  had  choked 
and  destroyed  his  childhood,  or  an  old  man  whose  youth  had 
died  out  of  him,  without  thinking  of  our  conversation  that 
night.  The  dolls  are  smothered  in  their  clothes,  and  the  little 
chapels  are  fated  to  fall  when  the  grand  cathedral  walls  are  fin 
ished.  The  one  thing  that  need  not  change,  the  one  thing  that 
should  not  change,  the  one  thing  which  has  the  power  to  pre 
serve  the  sweetness  of  all  youthful  relations  up  to  the  change 
of  death,  and,  doubtless,  beyond  it,  is  childhood— the  innocent, 
playful,  trusting,  loyal,  loving,  hopeful  childhood  of  the  soul, 
with  all  its  illusions  and  romances  and  enjoyment  of  pure  and 
simple  delights. 

Millie  and  I  talked  of  many  things  that  evening,  and  partici 
pated  very  little  in  the  general  conversation  which  went  on  at 
the  other  end  of  the  drawing-room.  I  learned  from  her  of  the 
plans  already  made  for  sending  her  away  to  school,  and  realized 
with  a  degree  of  pain  which  1  found  difficult  to  explain  to  my 
self,  that  years  were  to  pass  before  we  should  meet  for  such  an 
hour  of  unrestrained  conversation  again. 

Before   I  bade  the  family  farewell,  Aunt  Flick  presented  to 


208  Arthur  Bannicastle. 

both  Henry  and  myself  a  little  box  containing  pins,  needles, 
buttons,  thread,  and  all  the  appliances  for  making  timely  re 
pairs  upon  our  clothing,  in  the  absence  of  feminine  friends. 
Each  box  was  a  perfect  treasure-house  of  convenience,  and  had 
cost  Aunt  Flick  the  labor  of  many  hours. 

"  Henry  will  use  this  box,"  said  the  donor,  "  but  you"  (ad 
dressing  me)  "  will  not." 

"I  pledge  you  my  honor,  Aunt  Flick,"  I  responded,  "that 
I  will  use  and  lose  every  pin  in  the  box,  and  lend  all  the  needles 
and  thread,  and  leave  the  cushions  where  they  will  be  stolen, 
and  make  your  gift  just  as  universally  useful  as  I  can." 

This  saucy  speech  set  Millie  into  so  hearty  a  laugh  that  the 
whole  company  laughed  in  sympathy,  and  even  Aunt  Flick's  face 
relaxed  as  she  remarked  that  she  believed  every  word  I  had  said. 

It  was  delightful  to  me  to  see  that  while  I  had  been  engaged 
with  Millie,  Mrs.  Belden  had  quietly  made  her  way  with  the 
family,  and  that  Henry,  who  had  met  her  coldly  and  almost 
rudely,  had  become  so  much  interested  in  her  that  when  the 
time  of  parting  came  he  was  particularly  warm  and  courteous 
toward  her. 

The  farewells  and  kind  wishes  were  all  said  at  last,  and  with 
Mrs.  Belden  upon  my  arm  I  turned  my  steps  toward  The  Man 
sion.  The  lady  thought  the  Bradfords  were  delightful  people, 
that  Henry  seemed  to  be  a  young  man  of  a  good  deal  of  in 
telligence  and  character,  and  that  my  sister  Claire  was  lovely. 
The  opening  chapter  of  her  life  in  Bradford,  she  said,  was  the 
most  charming  reading  that  she  had  found  in  any  book  for 
many  years  ;  and  if  the  story  should  go  on  as  it  had  begun  she 
should  be  more  than  satisfied. 

I  need  not  dwell  upon  my  departure  further.  In  the  early 
morning  of  the  next  day,  Henry  and  I  were  on  our  way,  with 
the  sweet  memory  of  tearful  eyes  in  our  hearts,  and  with  the 
consciousness  that  good  wishes  and  prayers  were  following  us 
as  white  birds  follow  departing  ships  far  out  to  sea,  and  with 
hopes  that  beckoned  us  on  in  every  crested  wave  that  leaped 
before  us  and  in  every  cloud  that  flew. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    BEGINNING    OF    COLLEGE    LIFE — I    MEET   PETER    MULLENS, 
GORDON    LIVINGSTON,    AND   TEMPTATION. 

THE  story  of  my  college  life  occupies  so  large  a  space  in  my 
memory,  that  in  the  attempt  to  write  it  within  practicable 
limits  I  find  myself  obliged  to  denude  it  of  a  thousand  inter 
esting  details,  and  to  cling  in  my  record  to  those  persons  and 
incidents  which  were  most  directly  concerned  in  shaping  my 
character,  my  course  of  life,  and  my  destiny. 

I  entered  upon  this  life  panoplied  with  good  resolutions  and 
worthy  ambitions.  I  was  determined  to  honor  the  expectations 
of  those  who  had  trusted  me,  and  to  disappoint  the  fears  of 
those  who  had  not.  Especially  was  I  determined  to  regain  a 
measure  of  the  religious  zeal  and  spiritual  peace  and  satisfac 
tion  which  1  had  lost  during  the  closing  months  of  my  stay  in 
Bradford.  Henry  and  I  talked  the  matter  all  over,  and  laid 
our  plans  together.  We  agreed  to  stand  by  one  another  in  all 
emergencies — in  sickness,  in  trouble,  in  danger — and  to  be 
faithful  critics  and  Mentors  of  each  other. 

Both  of  us  won  at  once  honorable  positions  in  our  class,  and 
the  good  opinion  of  our  teachers,  for  we  were  thoroughly  in 
earnest  and  scrupulously  industrious.  Though  a  good  deal  of 
society  forced  itself  upon  us,  we  were  sufficient  for  each  other, 
and  sought  but  little  to  extend  the  field  of  companionship. 

We  went  at  once  into  the  weekly  prayer-meeting  held  by  the 
religious  students,  thinking,  that  whatever  other  effect  it  might 
have  upon  us,  it  would  so  thoroughly  declare  our  position  that 
all  that  was  gross  in  the  way  of  temptation  would  shun  us. 
Taking  our  religious  stand  early,  we  felt,  too,  that  we  should 
have  a  better  outlook  upon,  and  a  sounder  and  safer  estimate 
of,  all  those  diversions  and  dissipations  which  never  fail  to  come 


2io  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

with  subtle  and  specious  temptation  to  large  bodies  of  young 
men  deprived  of  the  influences  of  home. 

The  effect  that  we  aimed  at  was  secured.  We  were  classed 
at  once  among  those  to  whom  we  belonged  ;  but,  to  me,  I 
cannot  say  that  the  classification  was  entirely  satisfactory.  I 
did  not  find  the  brightest  and  most  desirable  companions 
among  those  who  attended  the  prayer-meetings.  They  were 
shockingly  common-place  fellows,  the  most  of  them — par 
ticularly  those  most  forward  in  engaging  in  the  exercises. 
There  were  a  few  shy-looking,  attractive  young  men,  who 
said  but  little,  took  always  the  back  seats,  and  conveyed 
to  me  the  impression  that  they  had  come  in  as  a  matter  of 
duty,  to  give  their  countenance  to  the  gatherings,  but  without 
a  disposition  to  engage  actively  in  the  discussions  and  prayers. 
At  first  their  position  seemed  cowardly  to  me,  but  it  was  only 
a  few  weeks  before  Henry  and  I  belonged  to  their  number. 
The  meetings  seemed  to  be  in  the  possession  of  a  set  of  young 
men  who  were  preparing  themselves  for  the  Christian  ministry, 
and  who  looked  upon  the  college  prayer-meeting  as  a  sort  of 
gymnasium,  where  they  were  to  exercise  and  develop  their 
gifts.  Accordingly,  we  were  treated  every  week  to  a  sort  of 
dress-parade  of  mediocrity.  Two  or  three  long-winded  fel 
lows,  who  seemed  to  take  the  greatest  delight  in  public 
speech,  assumed  the  leadership,  and  I  may  frankly  say  that 
they  possessed  no  power  to  do  me  good.  It  is  possible  that 
the  rest  of  us  ought  to  have  frowned  upon  their  presumption, 
and  insisted  on  a  more  democratic  division  of  duty  and  priv 
ilege  ;  but,  in  truth,  there  was  something  about  them  with  which 
we  did  not  wish  to  come  into  contact.  So  we  contented  our 
selves  with  giving  the  honor  to  them,  and  cherishing  the  hope 
that  what  they  did  would  bring  good  to  somebody. 

Henry  and  I  talked  about  the  matter  in  our  walks  and  times 
of  leisure,  and  the  result  was  to  disgust  us  with  the  semi-pro 
fessional  wordiness  of  the  meetings,  as  well  as  with  the  little 
body  of  windy  talkers  who  made  those  meetings  so  fruitless 
and  unattractive  to  us.  We  found  ourselves  driven  in  at  length 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  211 

upon  our  own  resources,  and  became  content  with  our  daily 
prayer  together.  This  was  our  old  habit  at  The  Bird's  Nest, 
and  to  me,  for  many  months,  it  was  a  tower  of  strength. 

Toward  the  close  of  our  first  term  an  incident  occurred  which 
set  me  still  more  strongly  against  the  set  of  young  men  to  whom 
I  have  made  allusion.  There  was  one  of  them  who  had  been 
more  offensive  than  all  the  rest.  His  name  was  Peter  Mullens. 
He  was  an  unwholesome-looking  fellow,  who  wore  clothes  that 
never  seemed  as  if  they  were  made  for  him,  and  whose  false  shirt- 
bosom  neither  fitted  him  nor  appeared  clean.  There  was  a 
rumpled,  shabby  look  about  his  whole  person.  His  small,  cun 
ning  eyes  were  covered  by  a  pair  of  glasses  which  I  am  sure  he 
wore  for  ornament,  while  his  hair  was  combed  back  straight 
over  his  head,  to  show  all  the  forehead  he  possessed,  though  it 
was  not  at  all  imposing  in  its  height  and  breadth.  I  had  made 
no  inquiries  into  his  history,  for  he  was  uninteresting  to  me  in 
the  last  degree. 

One  evening,  just  before  bedtime,  he  knocked  at  our  door  and 
entered.  He  had  never  done  this  before,  and  as  he  seemed  to 
be  in  unusually  good  spirits,  and  to  come  in  with  an  air  of  good- 
fellowship  and  familiarity,  both  Henry  and  myself  regarded  his 
call  with  a  sort  of  questioning  surprise.  After  the  utterance  of 
a  few  commonplace  remarks  about  the  weather,  and  the  very 
interesting  meetings  they  were  having,  he  explained  that  he 
had  called  to  inquire  why  it  was  that  we  had  forsaken  the  prayer- 
meetings. 

Henry  told  him  at  once,  and  frankly,  that  it  was  because  he 
was  not  interested  in  them,  and  because  he  felt  that  he  could 
spend  his  time  better. 

Still  more  frankly,  and  with  less  discretion,  I  told  him  that 
the  meetings  seemed  to  be  in  the  hands  of  a  set  of  muffs,  who 
knew  very  little  and  assumed  to  know  everything. 

"The  trouble  with  you  fellows,"  responded  Mr.  Peter  Mul 
lens,  "is  that  you  arc  proud,  and  will  not  humble  yourselves 
to  learn.  If  you  felt  the  responsibility  of  those  of  us  who  are 
fitting  for  the  ministry,  you  would  look  upon  the  matter  in  a  very 


212  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

different  way.  We  have  begun  our  work,  and  we  shall  carry  it 
on,  whether  men  Avill  hear  or  forbear." 

"  Is  it  any  of  your  business  whether  they  hear  or  forbear?  " 
said  I,  totichily  :  "because,  if  it  is,  Henry  and  I  will  sweep  the 
floor  and  get  down  on  our  knees  to  you." 

"It  is  my  business  to  do  my  duty,  in  the  face  of  all  the 
taunts  and  ridicule  which  you  may  heap  upon  me,"  replied  Mr. 
Mullens,  loftily. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Mullens,"  I  said,  "but  it  seems  to  me  that 
fellows  of  your  sort  thrive  on  taunts  and  ridicule.  Don't  you 
rather  like  them  now  ?  " 

Mr.  Mullens  smiled  a  sad,  pitying  smile,  and  said  that  no  one 
who  did  his  duty  could  hope  to  livealife  of  gratified  pride  or  of 
ease. 

"Mr.  Mullens,"  said  Henry,  "I  .suppose  that  so  far  as  you 
know  your  own  motives,  those  which  led  you  here  were  good  ; 
but  lest  you  should  be  tempted  to  repeat  your  visit,  let  me  say 
that  I  relieve  you  of  all  responsibility  for  my  future  conduct. 
You  have  done  me  all  the  good  that  you  can  possibly  do  me, 
except  in  one  way." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  inquired  Mullens. 

"  By  carefully  keeping  out  of  this  room,  and  out  of  my  sight," 
responded  Henry. 

"  Henry  has  expressed  my  feelings  exactly,"  I  added  ;  "and 
now  I  think  there  is  a  fair  understanding  of  the  matter,  and  we 
can  feel  ourselves  at  liberty  to  change  the  conversation." 

Mullens  sat  a  moment  in  thought,  then  he  adjusted  his  spec 
tacles,  tucked  down  his  false  shirt-bosom,  which  always  looked 
as  if  it  were  blown  up  and  needed  pricking,  and  turning  to  me, 
said  with  an  air  of  cunning  triumph :  "  Bonnicastle,  I  believe 
you  are  one  of  us." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Why,  one  of  us  that  have  aid,  you  know — what  they  call 
charity  students." 

"  Charity  students  !  "  I  exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  I've  found  it  out.     You  are  luckier  than  the  rest  of  us, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  213 

for  you  have  no  end  of  money.  I  wish  you  could  manage  in 
some  way  to  get  the  old  woman  to  help  me,  for  I  really  need 
more  aid  than  I  have.  I  don't  suppose  she  would  feel  a  gift  of 
fifty  dollars  any  more  than  she  would  one  of  fifty  cents.  So 
small  a  sum  as  ten  dollars  would  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good, 
or  even  five." 

"How  would  you  like  some  old  clothes?"  inquired  Henry, 
with  a  quiet  but  contemptuous  smile. 

"  That  is  really  what  I  would  like  to  speak  about,"  said  Mr. 
Mullens.  "  You  fellows  who  have  plenty  of  money  throw  away 
your  clothes  when  they  are  only  a  little  worn  ;  and  when  you 
have  any  to  give  away,  you  would  oblige  me  very  much  by  re 
membering  me.  I  have  no  new  clothes  myself.  1  take  the 
crumbs  that  fall." 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  resumed  Henry,  "that  perhaps 
you  might  like  some  cold  victuals." 

"  No,  I'm  provided  for,  so  far  as  board  and  lodging  are  con 
cerned,"  responded  Mr.  Mullens,  entirely  unconscious  of  the 
irony  of  which  he  was  the  subject. 

Henry  turned  to  me  with  a  hopeless  look,  as  if  he  had 
sounded  himself  in  vain  to  find  words  which  would  express  his 
contempt  for  the  booby  before  him.  As  for  myself,  I  had  been 
so  taken  off  my  guard,  so  shamed  with  the  thought  that  he  and 
his  confreres  regarded  me  as  belonging  to  their  number,  so  dis 
gusted  with  the  fellow's  greed  and  lack  of  sensibility,  and  so 
angry  at  his  presumption,  that  I  could  not  trust  myself  to 
speak  at  all.  I  suspected  that  if  I  should  begin  to  express  my 
feelings  I  should  end  by  kicking  him  out  of  the  room. 

Henry  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  in  a  sort  of  dumb  won 
der,  and  then  said  :  "  Peter  Mullens,  what  do  you  suppose  I 
think  of  you  ?" 

There  was  something  in  the  flash  of  Henry's  eye  and  in  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  as  he  uttered  this  question,  that  brought 
Mullens  to  his  feet  in  an  impulse  to  retire. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Henry. 

Mr.  Mullens  sut  down  with  his  hat  between  his  knees,  and 


214 

mumbled  something  about  having  stayed  longer  than  he  in 
tended. 

"You  cannot  go  yet,"  Henry  continued.  "You  came  in 
here  to  lecture  us,  and  to  humiliate  one  of  us  ;  and  now  I  pro 
pose  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you.  There  is  not  the  first 
element  of  a  gentleman  in  you.  You  came  in  here  as  a  bully 
in  the  name  of  religion,  you  advertise  yourself  as  a  sneak  by 
boasting  that  you  have  been  prying  into  other  people's  affairs, 
and  you  end  by  begging  old  clothes  of  those  who  have  too 
much  self-respect  to  kick  you  for  your  impudence  and  your 
impertinence.  Do  you  suppose  that  such  a  puppy  as  you  are 
can  ever  prepare  for  the  ministry  ?  " 

I  think  that  this  was  probably  the  first  time  Peter  Mullens 
had  ever  heard  the  plain  truth  in  regard  to  himself.  He  was 
very  much  astonished,  for  his  slow  apprehension  had  at  last 
grasped  the  conclusions  that  he  was  heartily  despised  and  that 
he  was  in  strong  hands. 

"  I — really — really — beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr. 
Mullens,  ramming  down  his  rising  shirt-bosom,  and  wiping  his 
hat  with  his  sleeve  ;  "  I  meant  no  offense,  but  really — I — I— 
must  justify  myself  for  asking  for  aid.  I  have  given  myself  to 
the  church,  gentlemen,  and  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 
What  more  can  I  do  than  to  give  myself?  The  church  wants 
men.  The  church  must  have  men  ;  and  she  owes  it  to  them 
to  see  that  they  are  taken  care  of.  If  she  neglects  her  duty 
she  must  be  reminded  of  it.  If  I  am  willing  to  take  up  with 
old  clothes  she  ought  not  to  complain." 

Mr.  Mullens  paused  with  a  vocal  inflection  that  indicated  a 
deeply  wounded  heart,  rammed  down  his  shirt-bosom  again, 
and  looked  to  Henry  for  a  response. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Mr.  Mullens,"  said  Henry,  "  that  the 
church  has  no  right  to  ask  you  to  give  up ;  one  thing  which 
you  have  no  right  to  give  up  ;  and  one  thing  which,  if  given 
up,  leaves  you  as  worthless  to  the  church  as  despicable  in 
yourself,  and  that  is  manhood  ;  and  I  know  of  nothing  that 
kills  manhood  quicker  than  a  perfectly  willing  dependence  on 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  215 

others.  You  are  beginning  life  as  a  beggar.  You  justify  your 
self  in  beggary,  and  it  takes  no  prophet  to  foresee  that  you  will 
end  life  as  a  beggar.  Once  down  where  you  are  willing  to  sell 
yourself  and  take  your  daily  dole  at  the  hand  of  your  purchaser, 
and  you  are  forever  down." 

"But  what  can  I  do  ?  "  inquired  Mullens. 

"  You  can  do  what  I  do,  and  what  thousands  of  your  betters 
are  doing  all  the  time — work  and  take  care  of  yourself,"  re 
plied  Henry. 

"  But  the  time — just  think  of  the  time  that  would  be  lost  to 
the  cause." 

"I  am  not  very  old,"  responded  Henry,  "but  I  am  old 
enough  to  know  that  the  time  which  independence  costs  is 
never  wasted.  A  man  who  takes  fifteen  years  to  prepare 
himself  for  life  is  twice  the  man,  when  prepared,  that  he  is  who 
only  takes  ten  ;  and  the  best  part  of  his  education  is  that  which 
he  gets  in  the  struggle  to  maintain  his  own  independence.  I 
have  an  unutterable  contempt  for  this  whole  charity  business, 
as  it  is  applied  to  the  education  of  young  men.  A  man  who 
has  not  pluck  and  persistence  enough  to  get  his  own  education 
is  not  worth  educating  at  all.  It  is  a  demoralizing  process,  and 
you,  Mr.  Peter  Mullens,  in  a  very  small  way,  are  one  of  its 
victims." 

Henry  had  been  so  thoroughly  absorbed  during  these  last 
utterances  that  he  had  not  once  looked  at  me.  I  doubt, 
indeed,  whether  he  was  conscious  of  my  presence  ;  but  as  he 
closed  his  sentence  he  turned  to  me,  and  was  evidently  pained 
and  surprised  at  the  expression  upon  my  face.  With  a  quick 
instinct  he  saw  how  readily  I  had  applied  his  words  to  myself, 
and,  once  more  addressing  Mullens,  said  :  "  When  a  childless 
woman  adopts  a  relative  as  a  member  of  her  family,  and  makes 
him  her  own,  and  a  sharer  in  her  love  and  fortune,  it  may  be 
well  or  ill  for  him,  but  it  is  none  of  your  business,  and  makes 
him  no  fellow  of  yours.  And  now,  Mr.  Mullens,  if  you  wish 
to  go,  you  are  at  liberty  to  do  so.  If  I  ever  have  any  old 
clothes  I  shall  certainly  remember  you." 


2i6  ArtJtur  Bonnicastle. 

"  I  should  really  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Mr. 
Mullens,  "  and  "  (turning  to  me)  "  if  you  should  happen  to  be 
writing  to  your  aunt — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Mullens,"  exclaimed  Henry,  "go 
no\v,"  and  then,  overwhelmed  with  the  comical  aspect  of  the 
matter,  we  both  burst  into  a  laugh  that  was  simply  irresistible. 
Mullens  adjusted  his  spectacles  with  a  dazed  look  upon  his  face, 
brushed  back  his  hair,  rammed  down  his  shirt-bosom,  buttoned 
his  coat,  and  very  soberly  bade  us  a  good-evening. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  we  should  have  found 
abundant  food  for  merriment  between  ourselves  after  the  man's 
departure,  but  Henry,  under  the  impression  that  he  had  unin 
tentionally  wounded  me,  felt  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by 
recalling  and  explaining  his  words,  and  I  was  too  sore  to  risk 
the  danger  of  further  allusion  to  the  subject.  By  revealing  my 
position  and  relations  to  Mullens,  Henry  had  sought,  in  the 
kindest  way,  to  place  me  at  my  ease,  and  had  done  all  that  he 
had  the  power  to  do  to  restore  my  self-complacency.  So  the 
moment  Mullens  left  the  room  some  other  subject  was  broached, 
and  in  half  an  hour  both  of  us  were  in  bed,  and  Henry  was 
sound  asleep. 

I  was  glad  in  my  consciousness  to  be  alone,  for  I  had  many 
things  to  think  of.  There  was  one  reason  for  the  omission  of 
all  comment  upon  our  visitor  and  our  conversation,  so  far  as 
Henry  was  concerned,  which,  with  a  quick  insight,  I  detected. 
He  had.  in  his  anxiety  to  comfort  me,  spoken  of  me  as  a  rel 
ative  of  Mrs.  Sanderson.  He  had  thus  revealed  to  me  the 
possession  of  knowledge  which  I  had  never  conveyed  to  him. 
It  certainly  had  not  reached  him  from  Mrs.  Sanderson,  nor  had 
he  gathered  it  from  Claire,  or  my  father's  family  ;  for  I  had 
never  breathed  a  word  to  them  of  the  secret  which  my  aunt  had 
permitted  me  to  discover.  He  must  have  learned  it  from  the 
Bradfords,  with  whom  he  had  maintained  great  intimacy.  I  had 
long  been  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  was  carrying  on  a  secret  life 
into  which  I  had  never  been  permitted  to  look.  I  should  not 
have  cared  for  this  had  1  not  been  suspicious  that  I  was  in  some 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  2  i  7 

way  concerned  with  it.  I  knew  that  he  did  not  like  my  rela 
tions  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  that  he  did  not  wish  to  speak  of 
them.  I  had  learned  to  refrain  from  all  mention  of  her  name  ; 
but  he  had  talked  with  somebody  about  her  and  about  me,  and 
had  learned  one  thing,  at  least,  which  my  own  father  did  not 
know. 

All  this,  Jiowever,  was  a  small  vexation  compared  with  the 
revelation  of  the  influence  which  my  position  would  naturally 
exert  upon  my  character.  However  deeply  it  might  wound 
my  self-love,  I  knew  that  I  was  under  the  same  influence  which 
made  Mr.  Peter  Mullens  so  contemptible  a  person.  He  was  a 
willing  dependent  upon  strangers,  and  was  not  I  ?  This  de 
pendence  was  sapping  my  own  manhood  as  it  had  already  de 
stroyed  his.  If  Mullens  had  come  to  me  alone,  and  claimed 
fellowship  with  me, — if  Henry  had  not  been  near  me  in  his 
quiet  and  self-respectful  independence  to  put  him  down, — 1  felt 
that  there  would  have  been  no  part  for  me  to  play  except  that 
of  the  coward  or  the  bully.  I  had  no  ground  on  which  to  stand 
for  self-defense.  Mr.  Peter  Mullens  would  have  been  master 
of  the  situation.  The  thought  galled  me  to  the  quick. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  remembered  that  I  was  an  irresponsible 
child  when  this  dependence  began.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  as 
sured  myself  that  I  was  no  beggar.  The  fact  remained  that  I 
had  be^n  purchased  and  paid  for,  and  that,  by  the  subtly  de 
moralizing  influence  of  dependence,  I  had  been  so  weakened 
that  I  shrank  from  assuming  the  responsibility  of  my  own  life. 
I  clung  to  the  gold  that  came  with  the  asking.  I  clung  to  the 
delights  that  only  the  gold  could  buy.  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  taking  myself  and  my  fortunes  upon  my  own  hands, 
and  I  knew  by  that  fact  that  something  manly  had  sickened  or 
died  in  me. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay  revolving  these  things  in  my 
mind.  It  was  certainly  far  into  the  night ;  and  when  I  woke  in 
the  morning  I  found  my  heart  discontented  and  bitter.  I  had 
regarded  myself  as  a  gentleman.  I  had  borne  myself  with  a 
considerable  degree  of  cxclusivcness.  I  had  not  cared  for  rec- 
10 


218  Arthur  Bonnicaslle. 

ognition.  Having  determined  to  do  my  work  well,  and  to  seek 
no  man's  company  as  a  thing  necessary  to  fix  my  social  status, 
I  had  gone  on  quietly  and  self-respectfully.  Now  I  was  to  go 
out  and  meet  the  anger  of  Peter  Mullens  and  his  tribe.  I  was 
to  be  regarded  and  spoken  of  by  them  as  a  very  unworthy 
member  of  their  own  order.  My  history  had  been  ascertained, 
and  would  be  reported  to  all  who  knew  me. 

All  these  reflections  and  suggestions  may  seem  very  foolish 
and  morbid  to  the  reader,  but  they  were  distressing  to  me  be 
yond  my  power  of  telling.  I  was  young,  sensitive,  proud,  and 
self-loving,  and  though  I  prayed  for  help  to  enable  me  to  face 
my  fellows,  and  so  to  manage  my  life  as  to  escape  the  harm 
which  my  position  threatened  to  inflict  upon  me,  I  could  not 
escape  the  conviction  that  Peter  Mullens  and  I  were,  essenti 
ally,  on  the  same  ground. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  looked  for  temptations  in  vain.  No 
temptations  to  dissipation  had  presented  themselves.  I  was 
sure  that  no  enticement  to  sensuality  or  gross  vice  would  have 
power  to  move  me.  Steady  employment  and  daily  fatigue  held 
in  check  my  animal  spirits,  and  all  my  life  had  gone  on  safely 
and  smoothly.  The  daily  prayer  had  brought  me  back  from 
every  heart-wandering,  had  sweetened  and  elevated  all  my 
desires,  had  strengthened  me  for  my  work,  and  given  me  some 
thing  of  the  old  peace.  Away  from  Henry,  I  had  found  but 
little  sympathetic  Christian  society,  but  I  had  been  entirely  at 
home  and  satisfied  with  him.  Now  I  found  that  it  required 
courage  to  face  the  little  world  around  me  ;  and  almost  uncon 
sciously  I  began  the  work  of  making  acquaintances  with  the 
better  class  of  students.  Although  I  had  held  myself  apart 
from  others,  there  were  two  or  three,  similarly  exclusive,  whom 
I  had  entertained  a  private  desire  to  know.  One  of  these  was 
a  New  Yorker,  Mr.  Gordon  Livingston  by  name.  He  had  the 
reputation  of  belonging  to  a  family  of  great  wealth  and  splen 
did  connections,  and  although  his  standing  as  a  student  was  not 
the  best,  it  was  regarded  as  an  honor  to  know  him  and  the  lit 
tle  set  to  which  he  belonged.  I  was  aware  that  the  morality  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  219 

the  man  and  his  immediate  companions  was  not  much  believed 
in,  and  I  knew,  too,  that  the  mean  envy  and  jealousy  of  many 
students  would  account  for  this.  At  any  rate,  I  was  in  a  mood, 
after  my  interview  with  Mr.  Mullens,  to  regard  him  very  chari 
tably,  and  to  wish  that  I  might  be  so  far  recognized  by  him  and 
received  into  his  set  as  to  advertise  to  Mullens  and  his  clique 
my  social  removal  from  them.  I  determined  to  brace  myself 
around  with  aristocratic  associations.  I  had  the  means  in  my 
hands  for  this  work.  I  could  dress  with  the  best.  I  had  per 
sonal  advantages  of  which  I  need  not  boast  here,  but  which  I 
was  conscious  would  commend  me  to  them.  I  had  no  inten 
tion  to  cast  in  my  life  with  them,  but  I  determined  to  lose  no 
good  opportunity  to  gain  their  recognition. 

One  evening,  walking  alone,  outside  the  limits  of  the  town — 
for  in  my  morbid  mood  I  had  taken  to  solitary  wanderings, — I 
fell  in  with  Livingston,  also  alone.  We  had  approached  each 
other  from  opposite  directions,  and  met  at  the  corners  of  the 
road  that  led  to  the  city,  toward  which  we  were  returning.  We 
walked  side  by  side,  with  only  the  road  between  us,  for  a  few 
yards,  when,  to  my  surprise,  he  crossed  over,  saying  as  he  ap 
proached  me:  "Hullo,  Mr.  Bonnicastle  !  What's  the  use  of 
two  good-looking  fellows  like  us  walking  alone  when  they  can 
have  company  ?" 

As  he  came  up  I  gave  him  my  hand,  and  called  him  by 
name. 

"  So  you've  known  me,  as  I  have  known  you,"  he  said  cor 
dially.  "It's  a  little  singular  that  we  haven't  been  thrown  to 
gether  before,  for  I  fancy  you  belong  to  our  kind  of  fellows." 

I  expressed  freely  the  pleasure  I  felt  in  meeting  him,  and  told 
him  how  glad  I  should  be  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  his 
friends  ;  and  we  passed  the  time  occupied  in  reaching  the  col 
lege  in  conversation  that  was  very  pleasant  to  me. 

Livingston  was  older  than  I,  and  was  two  classes  in  advance 
of  me.  He  was  therefore  in  a  position  to  patronize  and  pet  me 
— a  position  which  he  thoroughly  understood  and  appreciated. 
In  his  manner  he  had  that  quiet  self-assurance  and  command 


22O  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

that  only  come  from  life -long  familiarity  with  good  society, 
and  the  consciousness  of  unquestioned  social  position.  He 
had  no  youth  of  poverty  to  look  back  upon.  He  had  no  asso 
ciations  with  mean  conditions  and  circumstances.  With  an 
attractive  face  and  figure,  a  hearty  manner,  a  dress  at  once 
faultlessly  tasteful  and  unobtrusive,  and  with  all  the  prestige  of 
wealth  and  family,  there  were  few  young  fellows  in  college 
whose  notice  would  so  greatly  flatter  a  novice  as  his.  The  men 
who  spoke  against  him  and  affected  contempt  for  him  would 
have  accepted  attention  from  him  as  an  honor. 

Livingston  had  undoubtedly  heard  my  story,  but  he  did  not 
sympathize  with  the  views  of  Mr.  Peter  Mullens  and  his  friends 
concerning  it.  He  found  me  as  well  dressed  as  himself,  quite 
as  exclusive  in  my  associations,  liked  my  looks  and  manners, 
and,  with  all  the  respect  for  money  natural  to  his  class,  con 
cluded  that  I  belonged  to  him  and  his  set.  In  the  mood  of 
mind  in  which  I  found  myself  at  meeting  him,  it  can  readily  be 
imagined  that  his  recognition  and  his  assurance  of  friendliness 
and  fellowship  brought  me  great  relief. 

As  we  entered  the  town,  and  took  our  way  across  the  green, 
he  became  more  cordial,  and  pulled  my  arm  within  his  own. 
We  were  walking  in  this  way  when  we  met  Mr.  Mullens  and  a 
knot  of  his  fellows  standing  near  the  path.  It  was  already 
twilight,  and  they  did  not  recognize  us  until  we  were  near 
them.  Then  they  paused,  in  what  seemed  to  have  been  an 
excited  conversation,  and  stared  at  us  with  silent  impertinence. 

Livingston  hugged  my  arm  and  said  coolly  and  distinctly  : 
"  By  the  way,  speaking  of  mules,  have  you  ever  familiarized 
yourself  with  the  natural  history  of  the  ass  ?  I  assure  you  it  is 
very  interesting — his  length  of  ear,  his  food  of  thistles,  his 
patience  under  insult,  the  toughness  of  his  hide — in  short — " 
By  this  time  we  were  beyond  their  hearing  and  he  paused. 

I  gave  a  scared  laugh  which  the  group  must  also  have  heard, 
and  said  :  "  Well  that  was  cool,  any  way." 

"You  see,"  said  Livingston,  "I  wanted  to  have  them  un 
derstand  that  we  had  been  improving  our  minds,  by  dcvo- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  221 

tion  to  scientific  subjects.  .  They  were  bound  to  hear  what  we 
said  and  I  wanted  to  leave  a  good  impression." 

The  cool  impudence  of  the  performance  took  me  by  surprise, 
but,  on  the  whole,  it  pleased  me.  It  was  a  deed  that  I  never 
could  have  done  myself,  and  I  was  astonished  to  find  that  there 
was  something  in  it  that  gratified  a  spirit  of  resentment  of 
which  I  had  been  the  unconscious  possessor.  The  utter  indif 
ference  of  the  man  to  their  spite  was  an  attainment  altogether 
beyond  me,  and  I  could  not  help  admiring  it. 

.Livingston  accompanied  me  to  my  room,  but  we  parted  at 
the  door,  although  I  begged  the  privilege  of  taking  him  in  and 
making  him  acquainted  with  my  chum.  He  left  me  with  an 
invitation  to  call  upon  him  at  my  convenience,  and  I  entered 
my  room  in  a  much  lighter  mood  than  that  which  drove  me 
out  from  it.  I  did  not  tell  Henry  at  once  of  my  new  acquaint 
ance,  for  I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with 
the  information.  Indeed,  I  knew  he  would  not  be,  for  he  was 
a  fair  measurer  of  personal  values,  and  held  Livingston  and 
Mullens  in  nearly  equal  dislike.  Still  I  took  a  strange  comfort 
in  the  thought  that  I  had  entered  the  topmost  clique,  and  that 
Mullens,  the  man  who  had  determined  to  bring  me  to  his  own 
level,  had  seen  me  arm-in-arm  with  one  of  the  most  exclusive 
and  aristocratic  fellows  in  the  college. 

And  now,  lest  the  reader  should  suppose  that  Henry  had  a 
knowledge  of  Livingston's  immorality  of  character  which  justi 
fied  his  dislike  of  him,  I  ought  to  say  at  once  that  he  was  not  a 
bad  man,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  learn.  If  he  indulged  in  im 
moral  practices  with  those  of  his  own  age,  he  never  led  me 
into  them.  I  came  to  be  on  familiar  terms  with  him  and  them. 
I  was  younger  than  most  of  them,  and  was  petted  by  them. 
My  purse  was  as  free  as  theirs  on  all  social  occasions,  and  I 
was  never  made  to  feel  that  I  was  in  any  way  their  inferior. 

Henry  was  a  worker  who  had  his  own  fortune  to  make,  and 
he  proposed  to  make  it.  Ho  was  conscious  that  the  whole 
clique  of  which  Livingston  was  a  member  held  nothing  in  com 
mon  with  him,  and  that  they  considered  him  to  be  socially  be- 


222  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

neath  them.  He  knew  they  were  not  actuated  by  manly  aims, 
and  that  they  had  no  sympathy  with  those  who  were  thus  act 
uated.  They  studied  no  more  than  was  necessary  to  avoid 
disgrace.  They  intended  to  have  an  easy  time.  They  were 
thoroughly  good-natured  among  themselves,  laughed  freely 
about  professors  and  tutors,  took  a  very  superficial  view  of  life, 
and  seemed  to  regard  the  college  as  a  mill  through  which  it  was 
necessary  to  pass,  or  a  waiting-place  in  which  it  was  considered 
the  proper  thing  to  stop  until  their  beards  should  mature. 

The  society  of  these  men  had  no  bad  effect  upon  me,  or 
none  perceptible  to  myself  for  a  long  time.  Braced  by  them 
as  I  was,  Mr.  Mullens  made  no  headway  against  me  ;  and  I 
came  at  last  to  feel  that  my  position  was  secure.  With  the 
corrective  of  Henry's  society  and  example,  and  with  the  habit 
of  daily  devotion  unimpaired,  I  went  on  for  months  with  a 
measurable  degree  of  satisfaction  to  myself.  Still  I  was  con 
scious  of  a  gradually  lowering  tone  of  feeling.  By  listening  to 
the  utterance  of  careless  words  and  worldly  sentiments  from 
my  new  companions,  I  came  to  look  leniently  upon  many 
things  and  upon  many  men  once  abhorrent  to  me.  Uncon 
sciously  at  the  time,  I  tried  to  bring  my  Christianity  into  a  com 
promise  with  worldliness,  and  to  sacrifice  my  scruples  of  con 
science  to  what  seemed  to  be  the  demands  of  social  usage.  I 
had  found  the  temptation  for  which  I  had  sought  so  long,  and 
which  had  so  long  sought  without  finding  me,  but  alas  !  I  did 
not  recognize  it  when  it  came. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MY  FIRST  VISIT  TO  NEW  YORK,  AND   MY   FIRST  GLASS  OF  WINE. 

RELYING  upon  my  new  associations  for  the  preservation  of 
my  social  position,  now  that  my  history  had  become  known  in 
the  college,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  be  seen  occasionally 
with  the  set  to  which  I  had  been  admitted  and  welcomed. 
This  apparent  necessity  not  (infrequently  led  me  to  their  rooms, 
in  which  there  were  occasional  gatherings  of  the  fellows,  and 
in  one  or  two  of  which  a  surreptitious  bottle  of  wine  was  in 
dulged  in.  Of  the  wine  I  steadily  refused  to  be  a  partaker, 
and  it  was  never  urged  upon  me  but  once,  when  Livingston 
interposed,  and  said  I  should  act  my  own  pleasure.  This  made 
the  attempt  to  carry  on  my  double  life  easier,  and  saved  me 
from  being  scared  away  from  it.  There  was  no  carousing  and 
no  drunkenness — nothing  to  oftend,  in  those  modest  symposia 
— and  they  came  at  last  to  wear  a  very  harmless  look  to  me, 
associated  as  they  were  with  good  fellowship  and  hospitality. 

Walking  one  day  with  Livingston,  who  fancied  me  and  liked 
to  have  me  with  him,  he  said  :  "  Bonnicastle,  you  ought  to  see 
more  of  the  world.  You've  been  cooped  up  all  your  life,  and 
arc  as  innocent  as  a  chicken." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  me  anything  but  innocent  would  you  ?" 
I  said  laughing. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  like  a  clean  fellow  like  you,  but  you 
must  see  something,  some  time." 

"  There'll  be  time  enough  for  that  when  I  get  through  study," 
I  responded. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  "but,  my  boy,  I've  taken  it 
into  my  head  to  introduce  you  to  New  York  life.  I  would 
like  to  show  you  my  mother  and  sisters  and  my  five  hundred 


224  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

friends.  I  want  to  have  you  see  where  I  live  and  how  I  live, 
and  get  a  taste  of  my  sort  of  life.  Bradford  and  your  aunt  are  all 
very  well,  I  dare  say,  but  they  are  a  little  old-fashioned,  I  fancy. 
Come,  now.  don't  they  bore  you?" 

"  No,  they  don't,"  I  replied  heartily.  "  The  best  friends  I  have 
in  the  world  are  in  Bradford,  and  I  am  more  anxious  to  please 
and  satisfy  them  than  I  can  tell  you.  They  are  very  fond  of 
me,  and  that  goes  a  great  way  with  such  a  fellow  as  I  am." 

"  Oh,  I  understand  that,"  said  Livingston,  "  but  I  am  fond 
of  you  too,  and,  what's  more,  you  must  go  home  with  me  next 
Christmas,  for  I  shall  leave  college  when  another  summer 
comes,  and  that  will  be  the  last  of  me,  so  far  as  you  are  con 
cerned.  Now  you  must  make  that  little  arrangement  with  your 
aunt.  You  can  tell  her  what  a  splendid  fellow  I  am,  and 
humbug  the  old  lady  in  any  harmless  way  you  choose;  but  the 
thing  must  be  done." 

The  project,  to  tell  the  truth,  set  my  heart  bounding  with  a 
keen  anticipation  of  delight.  Livingston  was  the  first  New 
York  friend  I  had  made  who  seemed  to  be  worth  the  making. 
To  be  received  into  his  family  and  introduced  to  the  acquaint 
ance  of  his  friends  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  best  opportunity 
possible  for  seeing  the  city  on  its  better  side.  I  was  sure  that 
he  would  not  willingly  lead  me  into  wrong-doing.  He  had 
always  forborne  any  criticism  of  my  conscientious  scruples. 
So  I  set  myself  at  work  to  win  Mrs.  Sanderson's  consent  to  the 
visit.  She  had  become  increasingly  fond  of  me,  and  greedy 
of  my  presence  and  society  with  her  increasing  age,  and  I  knew 
it  would  be  an  act  of  self-denial  for  her  to  grant  my  request. 
However,  under  my  eloquent  representations  of  the  desirable 
ness  of  the  visit,  on  social  grounds,  she  was  persuaded,  and  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  reporting  her  consent  to  Livingston. 

I  pass  over  the  events  of  the  swift  months  that  made  up  the 
record  of  my  first  year  and  of  the  second  autumn  of  my  col 
lege  life,  mentioning  only  the  facts  that  I  maintained  a  respect 
able  position  in  my  class  without  excellence,  and  that  I  visited 
home  twice.  Everything  went  on  well  in  my  aunt's  family. 


A  rth  u  r  Bo  n  n  icastle. 


225 


She  retained  the  health  she  had  regained ;  and  Mrs.  Belden 
had  become,  as  her  helper  and  companion,  everything  she  had 
anticipated.  She  had  taken  upon  herself  much  of  the  work  I 
had  learned  to  do,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  the  family  life  was 
harmonious  and  happy. 

My  vanity  was  piqued  by  the  reflection  that  Henry  had 
achieved  better  progress  than  I,  and  was  much  more  generally 
respected.  He  had  gradually  made  himself  a  social  center 
without  the  effort  to  do  so,  and  had  pushed  his  way  by  sterling 
work  and  worth.  Nothing  of  this,  however,  was  known  in 
Bradford,  and  we  were  received  with  equal  consideration  by  all 
our  friends. 

For  months  the  projected  holiday  visit  to  New  York  had 
shone  before  me  as  a  glittering  goal ;  and  when  at  last,  on  a 
sparkling  December  morning,  I  found  myself  with  Livingston 
dashing  over  the  blue  waters  of  the  Sound  toward  the  great 
city,  my  heart  bounded  with  pleasure.  Had  I  been  a  winged 
spirit,  about  to  explore  a  new  star,  I  could  not  have  felt  more 
buoyantly  expectant.  Livingston  was  as  delighted  as  myself, 
for  he  was  sympathetic  with  me,  and  anticipated  great  enjoy 
ment  in  being  the  cup-bearer  at  this  new  feast  of  my  life. 

We  passed  Hellgate,  we  slid  by  the  sunny  islands,  we  ap 
proached  the  gray-blue  cloud  pierced  by  a  hundred  shadowy 
spires  under  which  the  city  lay.  Steamers  pushed  here  and 
there,  forests  of  masts  bristled  in  the  distance,  asthmatic  little 
tugs  were  towing  great  ships  seaward,  ferry-boats  crowded  with 
men  reeled  out  from  their  docks  and  flew  in  every  direction, 
and  a  weather-beaten,  black  ship,  crowded  with  immigrants, 
cheered  us  as  we  rushed  by  them.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
down  the  river  and  out  upon  the  bay,  all  was  life,  large  and 
abounding.  My  heart  swelled  within  me  as  I  gazed  upon  the 
splendid  spectacle,  and  in  a  moment,  my  past  life  and  all  that 
was  behind  me  were  dwarfed  and  insignificant. 

As  we  approached  the  wharf,  we  saw  among  the  assemblage 
of  hacks  and  their  drivers — drivers  who  with  frantic  whips  en 
deavored  to  attract   our  attention — a  plain,   shining  carriage, 
10* 


226  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

with  a  coachman  and  footman  in  livery  on  the  box.  The  men 
saw  us,  and  raised  their  hats.  The  footman  jumped  from  his 
place  as  we  touched  the  wharf,  and,  relieved  by  him  of  out- 
satchels,  we  quietly  walked  through  the  boisterous  crowd,  en 
tered  the  coach,  and  slowly  took  our  way  along  the  busy  streets. 
To  be  thus  shut  in  behind  the  cleanest  of  cut-glass,  to  recline 
upon  the  most  luxurious  upholstery,  to  be  taken  care  of  and 
shielded  from  all  the  roughness  of  that  tumultuous  out-door 
world,  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  harsh  necessities  that  made  that 
world  forbidding,  to  feel  that  1  was  a  favored  child  of  fortune, 
filled  me  with  a  strange,  selfish  delight.  It  was  like  entering 
upon  the  realization  of  a  great,  sweet  dream. 

Livingston  watched  my  face  with  much  secret  pleasure,  I  do 
not  doubt,  but  he  said  little,  except  to  point  out  to  me  the  more 
notable  edifices  on  the  route.  I  was  in  a  city  of  palaces — 
warehouses  that  were  the  homes  of  mighty  commerce  and 
dwellings  that  spoke  of  marvelous  wealth.  Beautiful  women, 
wrapped  in  costly  furs,  swept  along  the  pavement,  or  peered 
forth  from  the  windows  of  carriages  like  our  own ;  shops  were 
in  their  holiday  attire  and  crowded  with  every  conceivable  arti 
cle  of  luxury  and  taste,  and  the  evidences  of  money,  money, 
money,  pressed  upon  me  from  every  side.  My  love  of  beauti 
ful  things  and  of  beautiful  life — life  relieved  of  all  its  homely 
details  and  necessities — life  that  came  through  the  thoughtful 
and  skillful  ministry  of  others — life  that  commanded  what  it 
wanted  with  the  waving  of  a  hand  or  the  breathing  of  a  word — 
life  that  looked  down  upon  all  other  life  and  looked  up  to  none 
— my  love  of  this  life,  always  in  me,  and  more  and  more  devel 
oped  by  the  circumstances  which  surrounded  me,  was  stimu 
lated  and  gratified  beyond  measure. 

At  length  we  drew  up  to  a  splendid  house  in  a  fashionable 
quarter  of  the  city.  The  footman  opened  the  door  in  a  twink 
ling,  and  we  ran  up  the  broad  steps  to  a  landing  at  which  an 
eager  mother  waited.  Smothered  with  welcoming  kisses  from 
her  and  his  sisters,  Livingston  could  not  immediately  present 
me,  and  Mrs.  Livingston  saved  him  the  trouble  by  calling  my 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  227 

name  and  taking  my  hand  with  a  dignified  cordiality  which 
charmed  me.  The  daughters,  three  in  number,  were  shyer, 
but  no  less  hearty  in  their  greeting  than  their  mother.  Two  of 
them  were  young  ladies,  and  the  third  was  evidently  a  school 
girl  who  had  come  home  to  spend  the  holidays. 

Livingston  and  I  soon  mounted  to  our  room,  but  in  the  brief 
moments  of  our  pause  in  the  library  and  our  passage  through 
the  hall  my  eyes  had  been  busy,  and  had  taken  in  by  hurried 
glances  the  beautiful  appointments  of  my  friend's  home.  It 
was  as  charming  as  good  taste  could  make  it,  with  unlimited 
wealth  at  command.  The  large  mirrors,  the  exquisite  paint 
ings,  the  luxurious  furniture,  the  rich  carvings,  the  objects  of 
art  and  vertu,  gathered  from  all  lands,  and  grouped  with  faultless 
tact  and  judgment,  the  carpets  into  which  the  foot  sank  as  into 
a  close-cropped  lawn,  the  artistic  forms  of  every  article  of  ser 
vice  and  convenience,  all  combined  to  make  an  interior  that 
was  essentially  a  poem.  I  had  never  before  seen  such  a  house, 
and  when  I  looked  upon  its  graceful  and  gracious  keepers,  and 
received  their  gentle  courtesies,  I  went  up-stairs  with  head  and 
heart  and  sense  as  truly  intoxicated  as  if  I  had  been  mastered 
by  music,  or  eloquence,  or  song. 

At  the  dinner-table,  for  which  we  made  a  careful  toilet,  all 
these  impressions  were  confirmed  or  heightened.  The  ladies 
were  exquisitely  dressed,  the  service  was  the  perfection  of  quiet 
and  thoughtful  ceremony,  the  cooking  was  French,  the  china 
and  glass  were  objects  of  artistic  study  in  their  forms  and  deco 
rations,  the  choicest  flowers  gathered  from  a  conservatory  which 
opened  into  the  dining-room,  breathed  a  delicate  perfume,  and 
all  the  materials  and  ministries  of  the  meal  were  wrapped  in 
an  atmosphere  of  happy  leisure.  Livingston  was  evidently  a 
favorite  and  pet  of  the  family,  and  as  he  had  come  back  to  his 
home  from  another  sphere  and  experience  of  life,  the  conver 
sation  was  surrendered  to  him.  Into  this  conversation  he 
adroitly  drew  me,  and  under  the  grateful  excitements  of  the  hour 
I  talked  as  I  had  never  talked  before.  The  ladies  flattered  me 
by  their  attention  and  applause,  and  nothing  occurred  to 


228  Artlnir  Bonnicastle. 

dampen  my  spirits  until,  at  the  dessert,  Mrs.  Livingston  begged 
the  pleasure  of  drinking  a  glass  of  wine  with  me. 

Throughout  the  dinner  I  had  declined  the  wine  that  had 
been  proffered  with  every  course.  It  was  quietly  done,  with 
only  a  motion  of  the  hand  to  indicate  refusal,  and  I  do  not 
think  the  family  had  noticed  that  I  had  not  taken  my  wine  with 
themselves.  Now  the  case  was  different.  A  lady  whom  I 
honored,  whom  I  desired  to  please,  who  was  doing  her  best  to 
honor  and  please  me — my  friend's  mother  at  her  own  table — 
offered  what  she  intended  to  be  a  special  honor.  My  face 
flamed  with  embarrassment,  I  stammered  out  some  sort  of 
apology,  and  declined. 

"  Now,  mother,  you  really  must  not  do  anything  of  that  sort," 
said  Livingston,  "  unless  you  wish  to  drive  Bonnicastle  out  of 
the  house.  I  meant  to  have  told  you.  It's  one  of  the  things 
I  like  in  him,  for  it  shows  that  he's  clean  and  plucky." 

"But  only  one  little  glass,  you  know — just  a  sip,  to  celebrate 
the  fact  that  we  like  one  another,"  said  Mrs.  Livingston,  with 
an  encouraging  smile. 

But  I  did  not  drink.  Livingston  still  interposed,  and,  al 
though  the  family  detected  the  disturbed  condition  of  my  feel 
ings,  and  did  what  they  could  to  restore  my  equanimity,  I  felt  that 
my  little  scruple  had  been  a  discord  in  the  music  of  the  feast. 

Mr.  Livingston,  the  head  of  the  house,  had  not  yet  shown 
himself.  His  wife  regretted  his  absence,  or  said  she  regretted 
it,  but  he  had  some  special  reason  for  dining  at  his  club  that 
day  ;  and  I  may  as  well  say  that  that  red-faced  gentleman 
seemed  to  have  a  special  reason  for  dining  at  his  club  nearly 
every  day  while  I  remained  in  New  York,  although  he  con 
sented  to  get  boozy  at  his  own  table  on  Christmas. 

We  had  delightful  music  in  the  evening,  and  my  eyes  were 
feasted  with  pictures  and  statuary  and  the  bric-H-brac  gathered 
in  long  foreign  travel  ;  but  when  I  retired  for  the  night  I  was 
in  no  mood  for  devotion,  and  I  found  myself  quarreling  with 
the  scruple  which  had  prevented  me  from  accepting  the  special 
friendly  courtesy  of  my  hostess  at  dinner. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  229 

Wine  seemed  to  be  the  natural  attendant  upon  this  high  and 
beautiful  life.  It  was  the  most  delicate  and  costly  language  in 
which  hospitality  could  speak.  There  were  ladies  before  me, 
old  and  young,  who  took  it  without  a  thought  of  wrong  or  of 
harm.  Was  there  any  wrong  or  harm  in  it?  Was  my  objection 
to  it  born  of  a  narrow  education,  or  an  austere  view  of  life,  or 
of  prejudices  that  were  essentially  vulgar?  One  thing  I  saw 
very  plainly,  viz.,  that  the  practice  of  total  abstinence  in  the 
society  and  surroundings  which  I  most  courted  would  make  me 
uncomfortably  singular,  and,  what  was  most  distressing  to  me, 
suggest  the  vulgar  rusticity  of  my  associations. 

From  my  childhood  wine  and  strong  drink  had  been  repre 
sented  to  me  to  be  the  very  poison  on  which  vice  and  immo 
rality  lived  and  thrived.  My  father  had  a  hatred  of  them  which 
no  words  could  express.  They  were  the  devil's  own  instruments 
for  the  destruction  of  the  souls  and  lives  of  men.  I  was  bred 
to  this  belief  and  opinion.  Mr.  Bradford  had  warned  me  against 
the  temptation  to  drink,  in  whatever  form  it  might  present 
itself.  Mr.  Bird  was  a  sworn  foe  to  all  that  had  the  power  to 
intoxicate.  When  I  went  away  from  home,  it  was  with  a  de 
termination,  entered  into  and  confirmed  upon  my  knees,  that  I 
would  neither  taste  nor  handle  the  seductive  draught  which  had 
brought  ruin  to  such  multitudes  of  young  men. 

Yet  I  lay  for  hours  that  first  night  in  my  friend's  home,  while 
he  was  quietly  sleeping,  debating  the  question  whether,  in  the 
new  and  unlooked-for  circumstances  in  which  I  found  myself,  I 
should  yield  my  scruples,  and  thus  bring  myself  into  harmony 
with  the  life  that  had  so  many  charms  for  me.  Then  my  im 
agination  went  forward  into  the  beautiful  possibilities  of  my  fu 
ture  life  in  The  Mansion,  with  the  grand  old  house  refitted  and 
refurnished,  with  its  service  enlarged  and  refined,  with  a  grace 
ful  young  figure  occupying  Mrs.  Sanderson's  place,  and  with  all 
the  delights  around  me  that  eye  and  ear  could  covet,  and  taste 
devise  and  gather. 

In  fancies  like  these  I  found  my  scruples  fading  away,  and 
those  manly  impulses  and  ambitions  which  had  moved  me 


230  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

mightily  at  first,  but  which  had  stirred  me  less  and  less  with  the 
advancing  months,  almost  extinguished.  1  \vas  less  interested 
in  what  I  should  do  to  make  myself  a  man,  witli  power  and  in 
fluence  upon  those  around  me,  than  with  what  1  should  enjoy. 
One  turn  of  the  kaleidoscope  had  changed  the  vision  from  a 
mass  of  plain  and  soberly  tinted  crystals  to  a  galaxy  of  bril 
liants,  which  enchained  and  enchanted  me. 

I  slid  at  last  from  fancies  into  dreams.  Beautiful  maidens 
with  yellow  hair  and  sweeping  robes  moved  through  grand  sa 
loons,  pausing  at  harp  and  piano  to  flood  the  air  with  the  rain 
of  heavenly  music ;  stately  dames  bent  to  me  with  flattering 
words  ;  groups  in  marble  wreathed  their  snowy  arms  against  a 
background  of  flowering  greenery ;  gilded  chandeliers  blazed 
through  screens  of  prismatic  crystal  ;  fountains  sang  and 
splashed  and  sparkled,  yet  all  the  time  there  was  a  dread  of 
some  lurking  presence — some  serpent  that  was  about  to  leap 
and  grasp  me  in  its  coils — some  gorgon  that  would  show  his 
grinning  head  behind  the  forms  of  beauty  that  captivated  my 
senses — some  impersonated  terror  that  by  the  shake  of  its 
finger  or  the  utterance  of  a  dreadful  word  would  shatter  the 
beautiful  world  around  me  into  fragments,  or  scorch  it  into 
ashes. 

1  woke  the  next  morning  unrefreshed  and  unhappy.  I  woke 
with  that  feeling  of  weariness  which  comes  to  every  man  who 
tampers  with  his  convictions,  and  feels  that  he  has  lost  some 
thing  that  has  been  a  cherished  part  of  himself.  This  feeling 
wore  away  as  I  heard  the  roar  of  carriages  through  the  streets, 
and  realized  the  novelty  of  the  scenes  around  me.  Livingston 
was  rnerry,  and  at  the  breakfast  table,  which  was  crowned  with 
flowers  and  Christmas  gifts,  the  trials  of  the  previous  night  were 
all  forgotten. 

The  Livingstons  were  Episcopalians — the  one  Protestant 
sect  which  in  those  days  made  much  of  Christmas.  We  all 
attended  their  church,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  wit 
nessed  its  beautiful  ritual.  The  music,  prepared  with  great 
care  for  the  occasion,  was  more  impressive  than  any  I  had 


A  rtku r  Bonn icastle. 


2?,  I 


ever  heard.  My  aesthetic  nature  was  charmed.  Everything 
seemed  to  harmonize  with  the  order  and  the  appointments  of 
the  house  I  had  just  left.  And  there  was  my  stately  hostess, 
with  her  lovely  daughters,  kneeling  and  devoutly  responding — 
she  who  had  offered  and  they  who  had  drunk  without  offense 
to  their  consciences  the  wine  which  I,  no  better  than  they,  had 
refused.  They  could  be  Christians  and  drink  wine,  and  why 
not  I  ?  It  must  be  all  a  matter  of  education.  High  life  could 
be  devoutly  religious  life,  and  religious  life  was  not  harmed  by 
wine.  My  conscience  had  received  its  salvo,  and  oh,  pitiful, 
recreant  coward  that  I  was,  I  was  ready  to  be  tempted  ! 

The  Christmas  dinner  brought  the  temptation.  Mr.  Living 
ston  was  at  home,  and  presided  at  his  table.  He  had  broached 
a  particularly  old  and  choice  bottle  of  wine  for  the  occasion, 
and  would  beg  the  pleasure  of  drinking  with  the  young  men. 
And  the  young  men  drank  with  him,  and  both  had  the  dishonor 
of  seeing  him  stupid  and  silly  before  he  left  the  board.  I  did 
not  look  at  Mrs.  Livingston  during  the  dinner.  I  had  refused  to 
drink  with  her  the  day  before,  and  I  had  fallen  from  my  resolu 
tion.  The  wine  1  drank  did  not  go  down  to  warm  and  stimu 
late  the  sources  of  my  life,  nor  did  it  rise  and  spread  confusion 
through  my  brain,  but  it  burned  in  my  conscience  as  if  a  torch, 
dipped  in  some  liquid  hell,  had  been  tossed  there. 

It  was  a  special  occasion — this  was  what  I  whispered  to  my 
conscience — this  was  the  breath  that  I  breathed  a  hundred 
times  into  it  to  quench  the  hissing  torture.  It  was  a  special 
occasion.  What  was  I,  to  stand  before  these  lovely  Christian 
women  with  an  assumption  of  superior  virtue,  and  a  rebuke  of 
their  habits  and  indulgences  ?  I  did  not  want  the  wine  ;  I 
did  not  wish  to  drink  again  ;  and  thus  the  fire  gradually  died 
away.  I  was  left,  however,  with  the  uncomfortable  conscious 
ness  that  I  had  in  no  degree  raised  myself  in  the  estimation  of 
the  family.  They  had  witnessed  the  sacrifice  of  a  scruple  and 
an  indication  of  my  weakness.  Livingston,  I  knew,  felt  sadly 
about  it.  It  had  brought  me  nothing  that  I  desired  or  expected. 

The  days  between  Christmas  and  New  Year's  were  packed 


232  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

with  a  thousand  pleasures.  A  party  was  gathered  for  us  in 
which  I  was  presented  to  many  beautiful  girls  and  their  stylish 
brothers.  We  visited  the  theaters,  we  were  invited  everywhere, 
and  we  often  attended  as  many  as  two  or  three  assemblies  in 
an  evening.  The  days  and  nights  were  a  continued  round  of 
social  pleasures,  and  we  lived  in  a  whirl  of  excitement.  There 
was  no  time  for  thought,  and  with  me,  at  least,  no  desire  for  it. 
But  the  time  rlew  away  until  we  waited  only  the  excitements 
of  New  Year's  Day  to  close  our  vacation,  and  return  to  the 
quiet  life  we  had  left  under  the  elms  of  New  Haven.  That 
day  was  a  memorable  one  to  me  and  demands  a  chapter  for 
its  record. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

I    GO    OUT   TO    MAKE    NEW   YEAR'S    CALLS   AND    RETURN    IN 
DISGRACE. 

NEW  YEAR'S  morning  dawned  bright  and  cold.  "  A  happy 
New  Year  to  you  ! "  shouted  Livingston  from  his  bed.  The 
call  woke  me  from  a  heavy  slumber  into  delightful  anticipa 
tions,  and  the  realization  of  a  great  joy  in  living,  such  as  comes 
only  to  youth — an  exulting,  superabounding  sense  of  vitality 
that  care  and  age  never  know. 

We  rose  and  dressed  ourselves  with  scrupulous  pains-taking 
for  calls.  On  descending  to  the  breakfast-room,  we  found  the 
young  ladies  quite  as  excited  as  ourselves.  They  had  prepared 
a  little  book  in  which  to  keep  a  record  of  the  calls  they  ex 
pected  to  receive  during  the  day,  for,  according  to  the  uni 
versal  custom,  they  were  to  keep  open  house.  The  carriage 
was  to  be  at  the  disposal  of  my  friend  and  myself,  and  we  were 
as  ambitious  concerning  the  amount  of  courtesy  to  be  shown 
as  the  young  ladies  were  touching  the  amount  to  be  received. 
We  intended,  before  bedtime,  to  present  our  New  Year's  greet 
ings  to  every  lady  we  had  met  during  the  week. 

Before  we  left  the  house,  I  saw  what  preparations  had  been 
made  for  the  hospitable  reception  of  visitors.  Among  them 
stood  a  row  of  wine  bottles  and  decanters.  The  view  sad 
dened  me.  Although  I  had  not  tasted  wine  since  "  the  special 
occasion,"  my  conscience  had  not  ceased  to  remind  me,  though 
with  weakened  sting,  that  I  had  sacrificed  a  conscientious  scru 
ple  and  broken  a  promise.  I  could  in  no  way  rid  myself  of 
the  sense  of  having  been  wounded,  stained,  impoverished.  I 
had  ceased  to  be  what  I  had  been.  I  had  engaged  in  no  de 
bauch,  I  had  developed  no  appetite,  I  was  not  in  love  with  my 


234  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

sin.  I  could  have  heartily  wished  that  wine  were  out  of  the 
world.  Yet  I  had  consented  to  have  my  defenses  broken  into, 
and  there  had  been  neither  time  nor  practical  disposition  to 
repair  the  breach.  Not  one  prayer  had  I  offered,  or  dared  to 
offer,  during  the  week.  My  foolish  act  had  shut  out  God  and 
extinguished  the  sense  of  his  loving  favor,  and  I  had  rushed 
blindly  through  my  pleasures  from  day  to  day,  refusing  to  lis 
ten  to  the  upbraidings  of  that  faithful  monitor  which  he  had 
placed  within  me. 

At  last,  it  was  declared  not  too  early  to  begin  our  visits. 
Already  several  young  gentlemen  had  shown  themselves  at  the 
Livingstons,  and  my  friend  and  I  sallied  forth.  The  coachman, 
waiting  at  the  door,  and  thrashing  his  hands  to  keep  them  warm, 
wished  us  "a  happy  New  Year"  as  we  appeared. 

"The  same  to  you,"  responded  Livingston,  "and  there'll  be 
another  one  to-night,  if  you  serve  us  well  to-day." 

"Thankee,  sir,"  said  the  coachman,  smiling  in  anticipation 
of  the  promised  fee. 

The  footman  took  the  list  of  calls  to  be  made  that  Living 
ston  had  prepared,  mounted  to  his  seat,  the  ladies  waved 
their  hands  to  us  from  the  window,  and  we  drove  rapidly  away. 

"  Bonnicastle,  my  boy,"  said  Livingston,  throwing  his  arm 
around  me  as  we  rattled  up  the  avenue,  "  this  is  new  business 
to  you.  Now  don't  do  anything  to-day  that  you  will  be  sorry 
for.  Do  you  know,  I  cannot  like  what  has  happened  ?  You 
have  not  been  brought  up  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  you're  all 
right.  Have  your  own  way.  It's  nobody's  business." 

I  knew,  of  course,  exactly  what  he  meant,  but  I  do  not  know 
what  devil  stirred  within  me  the  spirit  of  resentment.  To  be 
cautioned  and  counseled  by  one  who  had  never  professed  or 
manifested  any  sense  of  religious  obligation — by  one  above 
whose  moral  plane  I  had  fancied  that  I  stood — made  me  half 
angry.  I  had  consciously  fallen,  and  I  felt  miserably  enough 
about  it,  when  I  permitted  myself  to  feel  at  all,  but  to  be  re 
minded  of  it  by  others  vexed  me  to  the  quick,  and  rasped  my 
wretched  pride. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  235 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,"  I  responded,  sharply,  "  and  don't 
worry  about  me.  I  shall  do  as  I  please." 

"It's  the  last  time,  old  boy,"  said  Livingston,  biting  his  lip, 
which  quivered  with  pain  and  mortification.  "It's  the  last 
time.  When  I  kiss  a  fellow  and  he  spits  in  my  face  I  never 
do  it  again.  Make  yourself  perfectly  easy  on  that  score." 

Impulsively  I  grasped  his  hand  and  exclaimed:  "Oh  !  don't 
say  that.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Let's  not  quarrel :  I  was  a 
fool  and  a  great  deal  worse,  to  answer  as  I  did." 

"All  right,"  said  he;  "but  if  you  get  into  trouble,  don't 
blame  me  ;  that's  all." 

At  this,  we  drew  up  to  a  house  to  make  our  first  call.  It  was 
a  grand  establishment.  The  ladies  were  beautifully  dressed, 
and  very  cordial,  for  Livingston  was  a  favorite,  and  any  young 
man  whom  he  introduced  was  sure  of  a  welcome.  I  was  flat 
tered  and  excited  by  the  attention  I  received,  and  charmed  by 
the  graceful  manners  of  those  who  rendered  it.  House  after 
house  we  visited  in  the  same  way,  uniformly  declining  all  the 
hospitalities  of  the  table,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  too  early 
to  think  of  eating  or  drinking. 

At  last  we  began  to  grow  hungry  for  our  lunch,  and  at  a 
bountifully  loaded  table  accepted  an  invitation  to  eat.  Several 
young  fellows  were  standing  around  it,  nibbling  their  sandwiches, 
and  sipping  their  wine.  A  glass  was  poured  and  handed  to  me 
by  a  young  lady  with  the  toilet  and  manner  of  a  princess.  I 
took  it  without  looking  at  Livingston,  held  it  for  a  while,  then 
tasted  it,  for  I  was  thirsty ;  then  tasted  again  and  again,  until 
my  glass  was  empty.  I  was  as  unused  to  the  stimulant  as  a 
child ;  and  when  I  emerged  into  the  open  air  my  face  was 
aflame  with  its  exciting  poison.  There  was  a  troubled  look  on 
Livingston's  face,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  feeling  that  he  was 
either  angry  or  alarmed.  ATy  first  experience  was  that  of  de 
pression.  This  was  partly  moral,  I  suppose  ;  but  the  sharp 
air  soon  reduced  the  feverish  sensation  about  my  head  and 
eyes,  and  then  a  strange  thrill  of  exhilaration  passed  through 


A  rtk  u  r  Bon  n  icastle. 

me.  It  was  different  from  anything  I  had  ever  known,  and  I 
was  conscious,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  charm  of  alcohol. 

Then  came  the  longing  to  taste  again.  I  saw  that  I  was  in 
no  way  disabled.  On  the  contrary,  I  knew  I  had  never  been 
so  buoyant  in  spirits,  or  so  brilliant  in  conversation.  My  im 
agination  was  excited.  Everything  presented  to  me  its  comi 
cal  aspects,  and  there  were  ripples  and  roars  of  laughter  where- 
ever  I  went.  After  repeated  glasses,  I  swallowed  atone  house 
a  draught  of  champagne.  It  was  the  first  I  had  ever  tasted, 
and  the  cold,  tingling  fluid  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  make 
me  noisy  and  hilarious.  I  rallied  Livingston  on  his  long  face, 
assured  him  that  I  had  never  seen  a  jolly  fellow  alter  so  rap 
idly  as  he  had  since  morning,  begged  him  to  take  something 
that  would  warm  him,  and  began  to  sing. 

"  Now,  really  you  must  be  quiet  in  this  house,"  said  he,  as 
we  drew  up  to  an  old-fashioned  mansion  in  the  suburbs. 
"  They  are  quiet  people  here,  and  are  not  used  to  noisy  fellows." 

"  I'll  wake  'em  up,"  said  I,  "  and  make  'em  jolly." 

We  entered  the  door.  I  was  conscious  of  a  singing  in  my 
ears,  and  a  sense  of  confusion.  The  warm  air  of  the  room 
wrought  in  a  few  moments  a  change  in  my  feelings,  but  I  strug 
gled  against  it,  and  tried  with  pitiful  efforts  to  command  my 
self,  and  to  appear  the  sober  man  I  was  not.  There  was  a 
little  group  around  us  near  the  windows,  and  at  the  other  end 
of  the  drawing-room — somewhat  in  shadow,  for  it  was  nearly 
night — there  was  another.  At  length  a  tall  man  rose  from  this 
latter  group,  and  advanced  toward  the  light.  Immediately  be 
hind  him  a  young  girl,  almost  a  woman  in  stature  and  bearing, 
followed.  The  moment  I  could  distinguish  his  form  and  feat 
ures  and  those  of  his  companion,  I  rushed  toward  them,  for 
getful  for  the  instant  that  I  had  lost  my  self-control,  and  em 
braced  them  both.  Then  I  undertook  to  present  Mr.  Bradford 
and  my  friend  Millie  to  Livingston. 

It  did  not  seem  strange  to  me  to  find  them  in  New  York. 
What  foolish  things  I  said  to  Mr.  Bradford  and  what  maudlin 
words  to  Millie  I  do  not  know.  Both  carried  grave  faces. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  237 

Millie's  eyes — for  even  through  all  that  cloud  of  stupid  insanity, 
from  this  far  point  of  distance  I  see  them  still — burned  first 
like  fire,  then  filled  with  tears. 

For  what  passed  immediately  after  this,  I  am  indebted  to  an 
other  memory  and  not  to  my  own. 

After  watching  me  and  listening  to  me  for  a  minute  in  silence, 
Millie  darted  to  the  side  of  Livingston,  and  looking  him  fiercely 
in  the  face,  exclaimed  :  "  You  are  a  wicked  man.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  to  let  him  do  it.  Oh  !  he  was  so  good  and 
so  sweet  when  he  went  away  from  Bradford,  and  you  have 
spoiled  him — you  have  spoiled  him.  I'll  never  forgive  you, 
never  !  " 

"  Millie  !  my  daughter  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bradford. 

Millie  threw  herself  upon  a  sofa,  and  burying  her  head  in 
the  pillow,  burst  into  hysterical  tears. 

Livingston  turned  to  Mr.  Bradford  and  said  :  "  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor,  sir,  that  I  have  not  drunk  one  drop  of 
wine  to-day.  I  have  refrained  from  drinking  entirely  for  his 
sake,  and  your  daughter's  accusation  is  most  unjust." 

Mr.  Bradford  took  the  young  man's  hand  cordially  and  said  : 
"  I  believe  you,  and  you  must  pardon  Millie.  She  is  terribly 
disappointed,  and  so  am  I.  She  supposed  her  friend  had  been 
tempted  by  bad  companions,  and  as  you  were  with  him,  she  at 
once  attributed  the  evil  influence  to  you." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  responded  Livingston,  "  no  man  has 
tempted  him  at  all,  and  no  man  could  tempt  him.  None  but 
women  who  prate  about  their  sufferings  from  drunken  husbands 
and  brothers  could  have  moved  him  from  his  determination. 
I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you  who  attacked  his  scruples  first.  It 
was  one  who  has  reason  enough,  Heaven  knows,  to  hate  wine  ; 
but  her  efforts  have  been  followed  by  scores  of  younger 
women  to-day,  who  have  seemed  to  take  delight  in  leading  him 
into  a  mad  debauch." 

Livingston  spoke  bitterly,  and  as  he  closed,  Millie  sprang 
from  the  sofa,  and  seizing  his  hand,  kissed  it,  and  wet  it  with  her 
tears. 


238  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Please  take  him  home,  and  be  kind  to  him,"  she  said.  "I 
am  sure  he  will  never  do  it  again." 

In  the  meantime,  entirely  overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  room, 
acting  upon  nerves  which  had  been  stimulated  beyond  the 
power  of  endurance,  I  had  sunk  helplessly  into  a  chair,  where 
I  stared  stupidly  upon  the  group,  unable  to  comprehend  a 
word  of  the  conversation. 

Mr.  Bradford  took  Livingston  aside,  and  after  some  words  of 
private  conversation,  both  approached  me,  and  taking  me  by 
my  arms,  led  me  from  the  house,  and  placed  me  in  the  car 
riage.  The  dusk  had  already  descended,  and  I  do  not  think 
that  I  was  observed,  save  by  one  or  two  strangers  passing  upon 
the  sidewalk.  The  seal  of  secrecy  was  placed  upon  the  lips  of 
the  household  by  the  kind  offices  of  Mr.  Bradford,  and  the 
story,  so  far  as  I  know,  was  never  told,  save  as  it  was  afterward 
told  to  me,  and  as  I  have  told  it  in  these  pages. 

The  carriage  was  driven  rapidly  homeward.  The  house  of 
the  Livingstons  was  upon  a  corner,  so  that  a  side  entrance  was 
available  for  getting  me  to  my  room  without  public  observa 
tion.  The  strong  arms  of  Livingston  and  the  footman  bore 
me  to  my  chamber,  removed  my  clothing,  and  placed  me  in 
bed,  where  I  sank  at  once  into  that  heavy  drunken  slumber 
from  which  there  is  no  waking  except  that  of  torture. 

The  morning  after  New  Year's  was  as  bright  as  that  which 
preceded  it,  but  it  had  no  brightness  for  me.  The  heart  which 
had  leaped  up  into  gladness  as  it  greeted  the  New  Year's  dawn, 
was  a  lump  of  lead.  The  head  that  was  as  clear  as  the  sky  it 
self  on  the  previous  morning,  was  dull  and  heavy  with  a  strange, 
throbbing  pain.  My  mouth  was  dry  and  hot,  and  a  languor 
held  me  in  possession  from  which  it  seemed  impossible  to  rouse 
myself.  Then  all  the  mad  doings  of  the  day  which  had  wit 
nessed  my  fall  came  back  to  me,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  shame 
of  it  all  would  kill  me.  Livingston  brought  me  some  cooling 
and  corrective  draught,  on  the  strength  of  which  I  rose.  The 
dizzy  feeling  was  not  entirely  gone,  and  I  reeled  in  a  pitiful 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  239 

way  while  dressing;  but  cold  water,  a  cool  room,  and  motion, 
soon  placed  me  in  possession  of  myself. 

"  I  can't  go  down  to  breakfast,  Livingston,"  I  said.  "  I 
have  disgraced  you  and  all  the  family." 

"  Oh  !  women  forgive,  my  boy,"  said  he,  with  a  contemptuous 
shrug.  "  Never  you  mind.  If  they  don't  like  their  own  work, 
let  them  do  it  better." 

"  But  I  can't  face  them,"  I  said. 

"Face  them!  Bah!  it's  they  who  are  to  face  you.  But 
don't  trouble  yourself.  You'll  find  them  as  placid  as  a  summer 
morning,  ignoring  everything.  They're  used  to  it." 

He  insisted,  and  I  descended  to  the  breakfast  room.  Not 
an  allusion  was  made  to  the  previous  day's  experiences,  except 
as  a  round  of  unalloyed  pleasure.  The  young  ladies  had 
received  an  enormous  number  of  calls,  and  on  the  sideboard 
stood  a  row  of  empty  decanters.  There  was  no  thought  of  the 
headaches  and  heart-burnings  with  which  the  city  abounded,  no 
thought  of  suicidal  habits  begun  or  confirmed  through  their 
agency,  no  thought  of  the  drunkards  they  were  nursing  into 
husbands.  There  sat  the  mother  in  her  matronly  dignity,  dis 
pensing  her  fragrant  coffee,  there  were  the  young  ladies  chat 
tering  over  their  list,  and  talking  of  this  one  and  that  one  of 
their  callers,  and  there  was  I,  a  confused  ruin  of  hopes  and 
purposes  which  clustered  around  a  single  central  point  of  con 
sciousness  and  that  point  hot  with  shame  and  remorse. 

We  were  to  return  on  the  afternoon  boat  that  day,  and  I  was 
not  sorry.  I  was  quite  ready  to  turn  my  back  on  all  the  splen 
dors  that  had  so  charmed  me  on  my  arrival,  on  all  the  new 
acquaintances  I  had  made,  and  on  my  temptations. 

Special  efforts  were  made  by  Mrs.  Livingston  and  her 
daughters  to  reinstate  me  in  my  self-respect.  They  were  cor 
dial  in  their  expressions  of  friendship,  begged  that  I  would  not 
forget  them,  invited  me  to  visit  them  again  and  often,  and 
loaded  me  with  all  courteous  and  friendly  attentions.  Living 
ston  was  quiet  and  cold  through  it  all.  He  had  intended  to 
return  me  as  good  as  he  brought  me,  and  had  failed.  He  was 


240  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

my  senior,  and  had  entertained  a  genuine  respect  for  my  con 
scientious  scruples,  over  which,  from  the  first  moment  I  had 
known  him,  he  had  assumed  a  sort  of  guardianship.  He  was 
high-spirited,  and  as  I  had  once  repelled  his  cautioning  care,  I 
knew  I  should  hear  no  more  from  him. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  boat,  I  went  at  once  into  the  cabin, 
sank  into  a  chair,  buried  my  face  in  my  hands,  and  gave  my 
self  up  to  my  sorrow  and  shame.  I  was  glad  that  I  should  not 
find  Henry  in  my  room  on  my  return.  He  had  been  gone  a 
month  when  I  left,  for,  through  the  necessities  of  self-support, 
he  had  resumed  his  school  duties  in  Bradford  for  the  winter. 
I  thought  of  him  in  his  daily  work,  and  his  nightly  visits  at  my 
father's  house ;  of  the  long  conversations  that  would  pass  be 
tween  him  and  those  whom  I  loved  best  about  one  who  had 
proved  himself  unworthy  of  their  regard;  of  the  shameful  man 
ner  in  which  I  had  betrayed  the  confidence  of  my  benefactress, 
and  the  disgrace  which  I  had  brought  upon  myself  in  the  eyes 
of  Mr.  Bradford  and  Millie.  It  then  occurred  to  me  for  the 
first  time  that  Mr.  Bradford  was  on  a  New  Year's  visit  to  his 
daughter,  whom  he  had  previously  placed  in  a  New  York 
school.  How  should  I  ever  meet  them  again  ?  How  could 
they  ever  forgive  me  ?  How  could  I  ever  win  their  respect 
and  confidence  again  ?  "  O  God  !  O  God  !  "  I  said,  in  a  whis 
per  of  anguish,  "  how  can  I  ever  come  to  Thee  again,  when  I 
knew  in  my  inmost  heart  that  I  was  disobeying  and  grieving 
Thee  ?  " 

I  was  conscious  at  this  moment  that  steps  approached  me. 
Then  followed  a  light  touch  upon  my  shoulder.  I  looked  up, 
and  saw  Mr.  Bradford.  I  had  never  before  seen  his  counte 
nance  so  sad,  and  at  the  same  time  so  severe. 

"Don't  reproach  me,"  I  said,  lifting  my  hands  in  depreca 
tion,  "don't  reproach  me  :  if  you  do,  I  shall  die." 

"  Reproach  you,  my  boy?"  he  said,  drawing  a  chair  to  my 
side  while  his  lips  quivered  with  sympathy,  "  there  would  be  no 
need  of  it  if  I  were  disposed  to  do  so.  Reproach  for  error  be 
tween  erring  mortals  is  not  becoming." 


Mr.   Bradford  and  Arthur  on  the  steamer. 


(p.  240.) 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  241 

"  Do  you  suppose  you  can  ever  forgive  me  and  trust  me 
again  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  forgive  you  and  trust  you  now.  I  give  you  credit  for 
common-sense.  You  have  proved,  in  your  own  experience, 
the  truth  of  all  I  have  told  you,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  you 
need  to  learn  anything  further,  except  that  one  mistake  and 
misstep  like  yours  need  not  ruin  a  life." 

"  Do  you  really  think,"  said  I,  eagerly  grasping  his  arm, 
"  that  I  can  ever  be  again  what  I  have  been  ?  " 

"Never  again,"  he  replied,  sadly  shaking  his  head.  "The 
bloom  is  gone  from  the  fruit,  but  if  you  hate  your  folly  with  a 
hatred  which  will  forever  banish  it  from  your  life,  the  fruit  is 
uninjured." 

"And  are  they  to  know  all  this  in  Bradford?"  I  asked. 

"  Never  from  me,"  he  replied. 

"You  are  too  kind  to  me,"  I  said.  "You  have  always  been 
kind." 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  intended  to  be  kind,  but  if  you  are 
ruined  through  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Sanderson's  money  1  shall 
curse  the  day  on  which  I  suggested  the  thought  that  brought 
you  under  her  patronage." 

"  Will  you  accept  a  pledge  from  me,"  I  said  eagerly,  "  in 
regard  to  the  future  ?  " 

"  No  indeed,  Arthur.  No  pledge  coming  from  you  to-day, 
while  you  are  half  beside  yourself  with  shame  and  sorrow, 
would  have  the  value  of  a  straw.  A  promise  can  never  redeem 
a  man  who  loses  himself  through  lack  of  strength  and  principle. 
A  man  who  cannot  be  controlled  by  God's  Word  certainly 
cannot  be  controlled  by  his  own.  It  will  take  weeks  for  you 
to  arrive  at  a  point  where  you  can  form  a  resolution  that  will 
be  of  the  slightest  value,  and,  when  you  reach  that  point,  no 
resolution  will  be  needed.  Some  influence  has  changed  your 
views  of  life  and  your  objects.  You  have  in  some  way  been 
shaken  at  your  foundations.  When  these  become  sound  again, 
you  will  be  restored  to  yourself,  and  not  until  then.  You  fan 
cied  that  the  religious  influences  and  experiences  which  we 
11 


242  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

both  remember  had  done  much  to  strengthen  you,  but  in  truth 
they  did  nothing.  They  interrupted,  and,  for  the  time,  ruined 
the  processes  of  a  religious  education.  You  fancied  that  in  a 
day  you  had  built  what  it  takes  a  lifetime  to  build,  and  you 
were,  owing  to  the  reactions  of  that  great  excitement,  and  to 
the  confusion  into  which  your  thoughts  and  feelings  were 
thrown,  weaker  to  resist  temptation  than  when  you  returned 
from  The  Bird's  Nest.  I  saw  it  all  then,  just  as  plainly  as  I  see 
it  now.  I  have  discounted  all  this  experience  of  yours — not 
precisely  this,  but  something  like  it.  I  knew  you  would  be 
tempted,  and  that  into  the  joints  of  a  harness  too  loosely  knit 
and  fastened  some  arrow  would  find  its  way." 

"What  am  I  to  do?     What  can  I  do?"  I  said  piteously. 

"  Become  a  child  again,"  he  responded.  "  Go  back  to  the 
simple  faith  and  the  simple  obedience  which  you  learned  of 
your  father.  Put  away  your  pride  and  your  love  of  that  which 
enervates  and  emasculates  you,  and  try  with  God's  help  to  grow 
into  a  true  man.  I  have  had  so  many  weaknesses  and  faults  of 
my  own  to  look  after,  that  I  have  never  had  the  heart  to  under 
take  the  instruction  of  others ;  but  I  feel  a  degree  of  responsi 
bility  for  you,  and  I  know  it  is  in  you  to  become  a  man  who 
will  bring  joy  to  your  father  and  pride  to  me." 

"  Oh !  do  believe  me,  Mr.  Bradford,  do,"  I  said,  "  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  will  try  to  become  the  man  you  desire  me  to 
be." 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  responded.  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  try,  in  a  weaker  or  stronger  way  and  more  or  less  persist 
ently,  to  restore  yourself  to  your  old  footing.  And  now,  as 
you  have  forced  a  promise  upon  me,  which  I  did  not  wish  you 
to  make,  you  must  accept  one  from  me.  I  have  taken  you 
into  my  heart.  I  took  you  into  its  warmest  place  when,  years 
ago,  on  our  first  acquaintance,  you  told  me  that  you  loved  me. 
And  now  I  promise  you  that  if  I  see  that  you  cannot  be  what 
you  ought  to  be  while  retaining  your  present  prospects  of 
wealth,  I  will  put  you  to  such  a  test  as  will  prove  whether  you 
have  the  manhood  in  you  that  I  have  given  you  the  credit  for, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  243 

and  whether  you  are  worth  saving  to  yourself  and  your 
friends." 

His  last  words  wounded  me.  Nay,  they  did  more — they 
kindled  my  anger.  Though  grievously  humiliated,  my  pride 
was  not  dead.  I  questioned  in  my  heart  his  right  to  speak  so 
strongly  to  me,  and  to  declare  his  purpose  to  thrust  himself 
into  my  life  in  any  contingency,  but  I  covered  my  feelings,  and 
even  thanked  him  in  a  feeble  way  for  his  frankness.  Then  I 
inquired  about  Henry,  and  learned  in  what  high  respect  he  was 
held  in  Bradford,  how  much  my  father  and  all  his  acquaintances 
were  delighted  in  him,  and  how  prosperously  his  affairs  were 
going  on.  Even  in  his  self-respectful  poverty,  I  envied  him — 
a  poverty  through  which  he  had  manifested  such  sterling  man 
hood  as  to  win  the  hearts  of  all  who  came  in  contact  with  him. 

"I  shall  miss  him  more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  I  said,  "when 
I  get  back  to  my  lonely  room.  No  one  can  take  his  place,  and 
I  need  him  now  more  than  I  ever  did  before." 

"  It  is  as  well  for  you  to  be  alone,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  "  if 
you  are  in  earnest.  There  are  some  things  in  life  that  can  only 
be  wrought  out  between  a  man  and  his  God,  and  you  have  just 
that  thing  in  hand." 

Our  conversation  was  long,  and  touched  many  topics.  Mr. 
Bradford  shook  my  hand  heartily  as  we  parted  at  the  wharf,  and 
Livingston  and  I  were  soon  in  a  carriage,  whirling  towards  the 
town.  I  entered  my  silent  room  with  a  sick  and  discouraged 
feeling,  with  a  sad  presentiment  of  the  struggle  which  its  walls 
would  witness  during  the  long  winter  months  before  me,  and 
with  a  terrible  sense  of  the  change  through  which  I  had  passed 
during  the  brief  week  of  my  absence. 

And  here,  lest  my  reader  be  afflicted  with  useless  anticipa 
tions  of  pain,  I  record  the  fact  that  wine  never  tempted  me 
again.  One  bite  of  the  viper  had  sufficed.  I  had  trampled 
upon  my  conscience,  and  even  that  had  changed  to  a  viper 
beneath  my  feet,  and  struck  its  fangs  deep  into  the  recoiling 
flesh.  From  that  day  forward  I  forswore  the  indulgence  of  the 
cup.  While  in  college  it  was  comparatively  easy  to  do  this,  for 


244  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

my  habit  was  known,  and  as  no  one  but  Livingston  knew  of 
my  fall,  it  was  respected.  I  was  rallied  by  some  of  the  fellows 
on  my  sleepy  eyes  and  haggard  looks,  but  none  of  them  imag 
ined  the  cause,  and  the  storm  that  had  threatened  to  engulf  me 
blew  over,  and  the  waves  around  me  grew  calm  again, — the 
waves  around  me,  but  not  the  waves  within. 

For  a  whole  week  after  I  returned,  I  was  in  constant  and  al 
most  unendurable  torture.  The  fear  of  discovery  took  posses 
sion  of  me.  What  if  the  men  who  were  passing  at  the  time  Mr. 
Bradford  and  Livingston  lifted  me  into  the  carriage  had  known 
me?  Was  Peter  Mullens  in  New  York  that  night,  and  was  he 
one  of  them  ?  This  question  no  sooner  took  possession  of  my 
mind,  than  I  fancied,  from  the  looks  and  whisperings  of  him 
and  his  companions,  that  the  secret  was  in  their  poss-ession.  I 
had  no  peace  from  these  suspicions  until  I  had  satisfied  myself 
that  he  had  not  left  the  college  during  the  holidays.  Would 
Mr.  Bradford,  by  some  accident,  or  through  forgetfulness  of  his 
promise  to  me,  speak  of  the  matter  to  my  father,  or  Henry,  or 
Mrs.  Sanderson?  Would  Millie  write  about  it  to  her  mother? 
Would  it  be  carelessly  talked  about  by  the  ladies  who  had  wit 
nessed  my  disgrace?  Would  it  be  possible  for  me  ever  to  show 
myself  in  Bradford  again  ?  Would  the  church  learn  of  my 
lapse  and  bring  me  under  its  discipline  ?  Would  the  religious 
congregations  I  had  addressed  hear  of  my  fall  from  sobriety, 
and  come  to  regard  me  as  a  hypocrite  ?  So  sore  was  my  self- 
love,  so  sensitive  was  my  pride,  that  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
lied  to  cover  my  shame,  had  the  terrible  emergency  arisen.  It 
did  not  rise,  and  for  that  I  cannot  cease  to  be  grateful. 

It  will  readily  be  seen  that,  while  the  fear  of  discovery  was 
upon  me,  and  while  I  lived  a  false  life  of  carelessness  and  even 
gayety  among  my  companions,  to  cover  the  tumults  of  dread 
and  suspicion  that  were  going  on  within  me,  I  did  not  make 
much  progress  in  spiritual  life.  In'  truth  I  made  none  at  all. 
My  prayers  were,  only  wild  beseechings  that  I  might  be  spared 
from  exposure,  and  pledges  of  future  obedience  should  my 
- -.-S-,  •  >  prayers,  be  answered.  So  thoroughly  did  my  fears  of  men  pos- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  245 

sess  me,  that  there  was  no  room  for  repentance  toward  God, 
or  such  a  repentance  as  would  give  me  the  basis  of  a  new  de 
parture  and  a  better  life.  I  had  already  tried  to  live  two  lives 
that  should  not  be  discordant  with  each  other ;  now  I  tried  to 
live  two  lives  that  I  knew  to  be  antagonistic.  It  now  became 
an  object  to  appear  to  be  what  I  was  not.  I  resumed  at  inter 
vals  my  attendance  upon  the  prayer-meetings  to  make  it  appear 
that  I  still  clung  to  my  religious  life.  Then,  while  in  the  soci 
ety  of  my  companions,  I  manifested  a  careless  gayety  which  I 
did  not  feel.  All  the  manifestations  of  my  real  life  took  place 
in  the  solitude  of  my  room.  There,  wrestling  with  my  fears, 
and  shut  out  from  my  old  sources  of  comfort  and  strength,  I 
passed  my  nights.  With  a  thousand  luxurious  appliances  around 
me,  no  sense  of  luxury  ever  came  to  me.  My  heart  was  a 
central  living  coal,  and  all  around  it  was  ashes.  I  even  feared 
that  the  coal  might  die,  and  that  Henry,  when  he  should  return, 
would  find  his  room  bereft  of  all  that  would  give  him  welcome 
and  cheer. 

As  the  weeks  passed  away,  the  fear  slowly  expired,  and  alas  ! 
nothing  that  was  better  came  in  its  place.  No  sooner  did  I 
begin  to  experience  the  sense  of  safety  from  exposure,  and 
from  the  temptation  which  had  brought  me  such  grievous  harm, 
than  the  old  love  of  luxurious  life,  and  the  old  plans  for  secur 
ing  it,  came  back  to  me.  I  felt  sure  that  wine  would  never 
tempt  me  again,  and  with  this  confidence  I  built  me  a  foun 
dation  of  pride  and  self-righteousness  on  which  I  could  stand, 
and  regard  myself  with  a  certain  degree  of  complacency. 

As  for  efficient  stud}'',  that  was  out  of  the  question.  I  was 
in  no  rnood  or  condition  for  work.  I  scrambled  through  my 
lessons  in  a  disgraceful  way.  The  better  class  of  students 
were  all  surpassing  me,  and  I  found  myself  getting  hopelessly 
into  the  rear.  I  had  fitful  rebellions  against  this,  and  showed 
them  and  myself  what  I  could  do  when  I  earnestly  tried  :  but 
the  power  of  persistence,  which  is  born  of  a  worthy  purpose, 
held  strongly  in  the  soul,  was  absc'nt,  and  there  could  be  no 
true  advancement  without  it. 


246  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

I  blush  with  shame,  even  now,  to  think  how  I  tried  to  cover 
my  delinquencies  from  my  father  and  Mrs.  Sanderson,  by 
becoming  more  attentive  to  them  than  I  had  ever  been  in  the 
matter  of  writing  letters.  I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  that 
carried  so  much  joy  to  my  father  as  a  letter  from  me. 
I  knew  that  he  read  every  letter  I  wrote  him,  again  and  again 
— that  he  canned  it  in  his  pocket  at  his  work — that  he  took  it 
out  at  meals,  and  talked  about  it.  I  knew  also  that  Mrs. 
Sanderson's  life  was  always  gladdened  by  attentions  of  this  sort 
from  me,  and  that  they  tended  to  keep  her  heart  open  toward 
me.  In  just  the  degree  in  which  I  was  conscious  that  I 
was  unworthy  of  their  affection,  did  I  strive  to  present  to 
them  my  most  amiable  side,  and  to  convince  them  that  I  was 
unchanged. 

I  lived  this  hypocritical,  unfruitful  life  during  all  that  winter ; 
and  when  Henry  came  to  me  in  the  spring,  crowned  with  the 
fruits  of  his  labor,  and  fresh  from  the  loves  and  friendships 
of  his  Bradford  home,  with  his  studies  all  in  hand,  and  with  such 
evident  growth  of  manhood  that  I  felt  almost  afraid  of  him, 
he  found  me  an  unhappy  and  almost  reckless  laggard,  with 
nothing  to  show  for  the  winter's  privileges  but  a  weakened  will, 
dissipated  powers,  frivolous  habits,  deadened  moral  and  religious 
sensibilities,  and  a  life  that  had  degenerated  into  subterfuge 
and  sham. 

My  natural  love  of  approbation — the  same  greed  for  the  good 
opinion  and  the  praise  of  others  which  in  my  childhood  made 
me  a  liar — had  lost  none  of  its  force,  and  did  much  to  shape 
my  intercourse  with  all  around  me.  The  sense  of  worthless- 
ness  which  induced  my  special  efforts  to  retain  the  good-will 
of  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  the  admiration  and  confidence  of  my 
father,  moved  me  to  a  new  endeavor  to  gain  the  friendship 
of  all  my  fellow-students.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  afford  to 
have  enemies.  I  had  lost  none  of  my  popularity  with  the 
exclusive  clique  to  which  I  had  attached  myself,  for  even 
Livingston  had  seen  with  delight  that  I  was  not  disposed  to 
repeat  the  mistake  of  which  he  had  been  so  distressed  a  wit- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  247 

ness.  I  grew  more  courteous  and  complaisant  toward  those  I 
had  regarded  as  socially  my  inferiors,  until  I  knew  that  I  was 
looked  upon  by  them  as  a  good  fellow.  I  was  easy-tempered, 
ready  at  repartee,  generous  and  careless,  and  although  I 
had  lost  all  reputation  for  industry  and  scholarship,  I  possessed 
just  the  character  and  manners  which  made  me  welcome  to 
every  group.  I  blush  while  I  write  of  it,  to  remember  how  I 
curried  favor  with  Mr.  Peter  Mullens  and  his  set ;  but  to  such 
mean  shifts  did  a  mean  life  force  me.  To  keep  the  bark  of 
my  popularity  from  foundering,  on  which  I  was  obliged  to  trust 
everything,  I  tossed  overboard  from  time  to  time,  to  meet 
every  rising  necessity,  my  self-respect,  until  I  had  but  little 
left. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PETER  MULLENS  ACQUIRES  A  VERY  LARGE  STOCK  OF  OLD 
CLOTHES. 

THOUGH  Mr.  Peter  Mullens  had  but  slender  relations  to  my 
outer  life — hardly  enough  to  warrant  the  notice  I  have  already 
taken  of  him — there  was  a  relation  which  I  recognized  in  my 
experience  and  circumstances  that  makes  it  necessary  for  me 
to  say  more  of  him.  He  had  recognized  this  relation  him 
self,  and  it  was  this  that  engendered  my  intense  personal  dislike 
of  him.  I  knew  that  his  willing  dependence  on  others  had 
robbed  him  of  any  flavor  of  manhood  he  might  at  one  time 
have  possessed,  and  that  I,  very  differently  organized,  was  suf 
fering  from  the  same  cause.  I  watched  the  effect  upon  him  of 
this  demoralizing  influence,  with  almost  a  painful  curiosity. 

Having,  as  he  supposed,  given  up  himself,  he  felt  that  he 
had  a  right  to  support.  There  seemed  to  him  to  be  no  sweet 
ness  in  bread  that  could  be  earned.  Everything  came  amiss 
to  him  that  came  with  personal  cost.  He  was  always  looking  for 
gifts.  I  will  not  say  that  he  prayed  for  them,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  prayed,  and  that  his  temporal  wants  mingled  in  his 
petitions.  No  gift  humiliated  him  :  he  lived  by  gifts.  His  greed 
for  these  was  pitiful,  and  often  ludicrous.  Indeed,  he  was  the 
strangest  mixture  of  piety,  avarice,  and  beggarly  meanness  that 
1  had  ever  seen. 

My  second  spring  in  college  was  verging  upon  summer. 
The  weather  was  intensely  hot,  and  all  the  fellows  had  put 
themselves  into  summer  clothing — all  but  poor  Peter  Mullens. 
He  had  corne  out  of  the  winter  very  seedy,  and  his  heavy 
clothing  still  clung  to  him,  in  the  absence  of  supplies  of  a 
lighter  character.  Although  he  had  a  great  many  pairs  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  249 

woolen  socks  and  striped  mittens,  and  a  dozen  or  two  neck 
ties,  which  had  been  sent  to  him  by  a  number  of  persons  to 
whom  he  gave  the  indefinite  designation  of  "  the  sisters,"  there 
seemed  to  be  no  way  by  which  he  could  transform  them  into 
summer  clothing.  He  was  really  in  a  distressed  condition,  and 
"  the  sisters"  failed  to  meet  the  emergency. 

At  a  gathering  of  the  fellows  of  our  clique  one  night,  his 
aifairs  were  brought  up  for  discussion,  and  it  was  determined 
that  we  should  go  through  our  respective  wardrobes  and  weed 
out  all  the  garments  which  we  did  not  intend  to  wear  again, 
and,  on  the  first  dark  night,  take  them  to  his  room.  I  was  to 
make  the  first  visit,  and  to  be  followed  in  turn  by  the  others. 

Accordingly,  having  made  up  a  huge  bundle  of  garments 
that  would  be  of  use  to  him,  provided  he  could  wear  them — 
and  he  could  wear  anything,  apparently — I  started  out  one 
evening,  and  taking  it  in  my  arms,  went  to  his  room.  This 
was  located  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  dormitory,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  narrow  hall,  and  as  the  hall  was  nearly  dark,  I  deposited 
my  bundle  at  the  door  and  knocked  for  admission. 

"  Come  in  ! "  responded  Mullens. 

I  entered,  and  by  good  fortune  found  him  alone.  He  was 
sitting  in  the  dark,  by  the  single  open  window  of  his  room,  and 
I  could  see  by  the  dim  light  that  he  was  stripped  of  coat  and 
waistcoat.  He  did  not  know  me  at  first,  but,  rising  and  strik 
ing  a  light,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Well,  this  is  kind  of  you,  Bonnicastle. 
I  was  just  thinking  of  you." 

He  then  remembered  that  his  glasses  had  been  laid  aside. 
Putting  them  on,  he  seemed  to  regard  himself  as  quite  present 
able,  and  made  no  further  attempt  to  increase  his  clothing.  I 
looked  around  the  bare  room,  with  its  single  table,  its  wretched 
pair  of  chairs,  its  dirty  bed,  and  its  lonely  occupant,  and  con 
trasting  it  with  the  cosy  apartment  I  had  just  left,  my  heart 
grew  full  of  pity  for  him. 

"  So  you  were  thinking  of  me,  eh  ?  "  I  said.  "  That  was  very 
kind  of  you.  Pray,  what  were  you  thinking?  Nothing  bad,  I 
hope." 

11* 


250  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  No,  I  was  thinking  about  your  privileges.  I  was  thinking 
how  you  had  been  favored." 

It  was  strange  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  Mullens  to  think 
about  or  to  envy  those  who  held  money  by  right,  or  by  the 
power  of  earning  it.  It  was  only  the  money  that  came  as  a 
gift  that  stirred  him.  There  were  dozens  or  hundreds  of  fellows 
whose  parents  were  educating  them,  but  these  were  never  the 
subject  of  his  envious  thoughts. 

"  Let's  not  talk  about  my  privileges,"  I  said.  "How  aie  you 
getting  along  yourself?  " 

"  I  am  really  very  hard  up,"  he  replied.  "  If  the  sisters 
would  only  send  me  trousers,  and  such  things,  I  should  be  all 
right,  but  they  don't  seem  to  consider  that  I  want  trousers  any 
more  than  they  do,  confound  them." 

The  quiet  indignation  with  which  this  was  uttered  amused 
me,  and  I  laughed  outright.  But  Mullens  was  in  sober  earnest, 
and  going  to  his  closet  he  brought  forth  at  least  a  dozen  pairs 
of  thick  woolen  socks,  and  as  many  pairs  of  striped  mittens, 
and  laid  them  on  the  table. 

"  Look  at  that  pile,"  said  Mullens,  "and  weep." 

The  comical  aspect  of  the  matter  had  really  reached  the 
poor  fellow's  apprehension,  and  he  laughed  heartily  with  me. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ?  "  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied;  "I've  thought  of  an  auction. 
What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"Why  don't  you  try  to  sell  them  at  the  shops  ?  "   I  inquired. 

"  Let  me  alone  for  that.  I've  been  all  over  the  city  with 
'em,"  said  he.  "One  fellow  said  they  didn't  run  even,  and  I 
don't  think  they  do,  very,  that's  a  fact.  Another  one  said  they 
looked  like  the  fag-end  of  an  old  stock  ;  and  the  last  one  I  went 
to  asked  me  if  I  stole  them." 

"  Well,  Mullens,  the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  I 
said,  consolingly.  "  It's  June." 

"  But  it  don't  apply,"  said  Mullens.  "  I'm  not  shorn.  The 
trouble  is  that  I've  got  too  much  wool." 

This  was  bright  for  Mullens,  and  we  both  laughed  again. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  251 

After  the  laugh  had  passed,  I  said :  "  I  think  I  know  of  eight 
or  ten  fellows  who  will  relieve  you  of  your  surplus  stock,  and, 
as  I  am  one  of  them,  I  propose  to  take  a  pair  of  socks  and  a 
pair  of  mittens  now." 

The  manner  of  the  man  changed  immediately.  His  face 
grew  animated,  and  his  eyes  fairly  gleamed  through  his  specta 
cles.  He  jumped  to  his  feet  as  I  spoke  of  purchasing,  and  ex 
claimed  :  "Will  you?  What  will  you  give?  Make  us  an 
offer." 

"  Oh,  you  must  set  your  own  price,"  I  said. 

"Well,  you  see  they  are  very  good  socks,  cl^n't  you  ?"  said 
Mullens.  "Now,  every  stitch  in  those  socks  and  mittens  was 
knit  upon  honor.  There  isn't  a  mercenary  inch  of  yarn  in  'em. 
Take  your  pick  of  the  mittens.  By  the  way,  I  haven't  shown 
you  my  neck-ties,"  and,  rushing  to  his  closet,  he  brought  forth 
quite  an  armful  of  them. 

The  humble  sufferer  had  become  a  lively  peddler,  bent  upon 
driving  the  sharpest  bargain  and  selling  the  most  goods  possible 
to  a  rare  customer.  Selecting  a  pair  of  socks,  a  pair  of  mittens, 
and  a  neck-tie  of  a  somewhat  soberer  hue  than  I  had  been  ac 
customed  to  wear,  he  laid  them  by  themselves,  and  then,  wiping 
his  forehead  and  his  glasses  with  a  little  mop  of  a  handkerchief, 
he  put  on  a  mildly  judicial  face,  and  said  : 

"  Bonnicastle,  my  dear  friend,  I've  always  taken  a  great  deal 
of  interest  in  you  ;  and  now  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  do 
me  a  world  of  good.  Think,  just  think,  Bonnicastle,  of  the 
weary  hours  that  have  been  spent  on  these  articles  of  apparel 
by  those  of  whom  the  world  is  not  worthy  !  Think  of  the  be 
nevolence  that  inspired  every  stitch.  Think  of  the — of  the — 
thoughts  that  have  run  through  those  devoted  minds.  Think 
of  those  sisters  respectively  saying  to  themselves  :  '  I  know  not 
whom  I  am  laboring  for — it  may  be  for  Mullens  or  it  may  be 
for  one  more  worthy, — but  for  whomsoever  it  is,  it  is  for  one  who 
will  stand  up  in  defense  of  the  truth  when  I  am  gone.  His  feet, 
bent  upon  errands  of  mercy,  will  be  kept  comfortable  by  these 
stockings.  His  hands,  carrying  succor  to  the  fallen  and  con- 


252  ArtJiur  Jlonnicastle. 

solation  to  the  afflicted,  will  be  warmed  by  these  mittens. 
These  neck-ties  will  surround  the  neck — the — throat — of  one 
who  will  breathe  words  of  peace  and  good-will.'  My  dear  Bon- 
nicastle,  there  is  more  in  these  humble  articles  of  apparel  than 
appears  to  the  carnal  eye — much  more — incalculably  more. 
Try  to  take  it  in  when  we  come  to  the  matter  of  price.  Try  to 
take  it  all  in,  and  then  discharge  your  duty  as  becomes  a  man 
who  has  been  favored." 

"  Look  here,  Mullens,"  said  I,  "you  are  working  on  my  feel 
ings,  and  the  articles  are  getting  so  expensive  that  I  can't  buy 
them." 

"  Oh,  don't  feel  that  way  ;  "  said  he,  "  I  only  want  to  have 
you  get  some  idea  what  there  is  in  these  things.  Why,  there's 
love,  good  will,  self-sacrifice,  devotion,  and  woman's  tender 
heart." 

"Pity  there  couldn't  have  been  some  trowsers,"  said  I. 

Mullens'  lip  quivered.  He  was  not  sure  whether  I  was  jok 
ing  or  not,  but  he  laid  his  hand  appealingly  upon  my  knee,  and 
then  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  wiped  his  forehead  and  spec 
tacles  again.  Having  made  up  my  mind  that  Mullens  had  de 
termined  to  raise  an  enormous  revenue  from  his  guods,  I  was 
somewhat  surprised  when  he  said  briskly,  "  Bonnicastle,  what 
do  you  say  to  a  dollar  and  a  half?  That's  only  fifty  cents  an 
article,  and  the  whole  stock  will  bring  me  only  fifteen  or  twenty 
dollars  at  that  price." 

"  I'll  take  them,"  said  I. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Mullens,  slapping  his  knee.  "Who'll 
have  the  next  bowl  ?  Walk  up,  gentlemen  !  " 

Mullens  had  evidently  officiated  in  an  oyster  booth  at  militia 
musters.  In  his  elated  state  of  feeling,  the  impulse  to  run  into 
his  old  peddler's  lingo  was  irrepressible.  I  think  he  felt  com 
plimented  by  the  hearty  laugh  with  which  I  greeted  his  cry. 

"  If  I'm  going  into  this  business,"  said  Mullens,  "  I  really 
must  have  some  brown  paper.  Do  you  suppose,  Bonnicastle, 
that  if  you  should  go  to  one  of  the  shops,  and  tell  them  the 
object, — a  shop  kept  by  one  of  our  friends,  you  know, — one 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  253 

who  has  the  cause  at  heart — he  would  give  you  a  package  of 
brown  paper  ?  I'd  go  myself,  but  I've  been  around  a  good 
deal." 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  me  buy  some?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  no  ;  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  exactly  the  thing  to  pay 
out  money  for  brown  paper,"  responded  Mullens. 

"  I'm  not  used  to  begging,"  I  said. 

"  Why,  it  isn't  begging,  Bonnicastle ;  it's  asking  for  the  cause." 

"  You  really  must  excuse  me,  Mullens." 

"All  right,"  said  he;  "  here's  an  old  newspaper  that  will  do 
for  your  package.  Now  don't  forget  to  tell  all  your  friends  that 
I  am  ready  for  'em.  Tell  'em  the  cause  is  a  good  one — that 
it  really  involves  the — the  welfare  of  society.  And  tell  'em 
the  things  are  dirt  cheap.  Don't  forget  that." 

Mullens  had  become  as  cheerful  and  lively  as  a  cricket ;  and 
while  he  was  doing  up  my  package,  I  opened  the  door  and 
brought  in  my  bundle.  As  I  broke  the  string  and  unfolded  the 
bountiful  contents,  he  paused  in  a  pleased  amazement,  and 
then,  leaping  forward  and  embracing  me,  exclaimed  :  "  Bonni 
castle,  you're  an  angel !  What  do  you  suppose  that  pile  is 
worth,  now,  in  hard  cash  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  it's  worth  a  good  deal  to  you,"  I  re 
plied. 

"  And  you  really  don't  feel  it  at  all,  do  you  now?  Own  up." 

"No,"  I  answered,  "not  at  all.  You  are  welcome  to  the 
whole  pile." 

"  Yes,  Bonnicastle,"  said  he,  sliding  smoothly  back  from  the 
peddler  into  the  pious  beneficiary,  "you've  given  out  of  your 
abundance,  and  you  have  the  blessed  satisfaction  of  feeling  that 
you  have  done  your  duty.  I  don't  receive  it  for  myself,  but 
for  the  cause.  I  am  a  poor,  unworthy  instrument.  Say,  Bonni 
castle,  if  you  should  see  some  of  these  things  on  others,  would 
you  mind  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  said.  "  Do  you  propose  to  share  your 
good  fortune  with  your  friends  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mullens,   "I   shall   sell   these   things   to  them, 


254  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

very  reasonably  indeed.  They  shall  have  no  cause  to  com 
plain." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  knock,  and  Livingston,  with  a 
grave  face,  walked  in  with  his  bundle,  and  opening  it,  laid  it 
upon  the  table.  Mullens  sank  into  his  chair,  quite  overwhelmed. 
"  P'ellows,"  said  he,  "  this  is  too  much.  I  can  bear  one  bun 
dle,  but  under  two  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  seem  to  totter." 

Another  and  another  followed  Livingston  into  the  room,  and 
deposited  their  burdens,  until  the  table  was  literally  piled.  Mul 
lens  actually  began  to  snivel. 

"It's  a  lark,  fellows,"  said  Mullens,  from  behind  his  handker 
chief.  "It's  a  lark  :  I  know  it.  I  see  it;  but  oh,  fellows  !  it's 
a  blessed  lark — a  blessed,  blessed  lark  !  Larks  may  be  em 
ployed  to  bring  tribute  into  the  storehouse.  Larks  may  be 
overruled,  and  used  as  means.  I  know  you  are  making  fun  of 
me,  but  the  cause  goes  on.  If  there  isn't  room  on  the  table, 
put  them  on  the  floor.  They  shall  all  be  employed.  If  I  have 
ever  done  you  injustice  in  my  thoughts,  fellows,  you  must  for 
give  me.  This  wipes  out  everything  ;  and  as  I  don't  see  any 
boots  in  your  parcels,  perhaps  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  re 
member  that  I  wear  tens,  with  a  low  instep.  Has  the  last 
man  come  ?  Is  the  cup  full  ?  What  do  you  suppose  the  whole 
pile  is  worth  ?  " 

Mullens  ran  on  in  this  way,  muddled  by  his  unexpected  good 
fortune  and  his  greed,  with  various  pious  ejaculations  which, 
for  very  reverence  of  the  words  he  used,  my  pen  refuses  to 
record. 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  not  making  the 
most  of  his  opportunities.  Springing  to  his  feet,  and  turning 
peddler  in  an  instant,  he  said :  "  Fellows,  Bonnicastle  has 
bought  a  pair  of  socks,  a  pair  of  striped  mittens  and  a  neck 
tie  from  my  surplus  stock.  I've  got  enough  of  them  to  go  all 
around.  What  do  you  say  to  them  at  fifty  cents  apiece  ?" 

"We've  been  rather  expecting,"  said  Livingston,  with  a 
quiet  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  that  you  would  make  us  a  present  of 
these." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  255 

Tliis  was  a  new  thought  to  Mullens,  and  it  sobered  him  at 
once.  "  Fellows,"  said  he,  "  you  know  my  heart ;  but  these 
things  are  a  sacred  trust.  They  have  been  devoted  to  a  cause, 
and  from  that  cause  I  cannot  divert  them." 

"  Oh  !  of  course  not,"  said  Livingston  ;  "  I  only  wanted  to 
test  your  faithfulness.  You're  as  sound  as  a  nut." 

The  conversation  ended  in  a  purchase  of  the  "  surplus  stock," 
and  then,  seeing  that  the  boys  had  not  finished  their  fun,  and 
fearing  that  it  might  run  into  some  unpleasant  excesses,  Liv 
ingston  and  I  retired. 

The  next  morning  our  ears  were  regaled  with  an  account  of 
the  remaining  experiences  of  the  evening,  but  it  does  not  need 
to  be  recorded  here.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  before  the 
company  left  his  room,  Mullens  was  arrayed  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  dress  made  up  from  various  parcels,  and  that  in  that 
dress  he  was  obliged  to  mount  his  table  and  make  a  speech. 
He  appeared,  however,  the  next  morning,  clothed  in  comforta 
ble  garments,  which  of  course  were  recognized  by  their  for 
mer  owners,  and  formed  a  subject  of  merriment  among  them. 
We  never  saw  them,  however,  upon  any  others  of  his  set,  and 
he  either  chose  to  cover  his  good  fortune  from  them  by  selling 
his  frippery  to  the  Hebrew  dealers  in  such  merchandise,  or 
they  refused  to  be  his  companions  in  wearing  garments  that 
were  known  in  the  college. 


CHAPTER  XVI I. 

I   CHANGE   MY  RELIGIOUS   VIEWS   TO    CONFORM  WITH    MY  MORAL 
PRACTICE,  AND  AM  GRADUATED  WITHOUT  HONORS. 

FROM  the  first  hour  of  my  direct  violation  of  my  conscience, 
there  began,  almost  imperceptibly  at  first,  a  change  of  my 
views  of  religious  doctrine  and  obligation.  It  was  one  of  the 
necessities  of  my  position.  Retaining  the  strict  notions  of  my 
childhood  and  younger  youth,  I  should  not  have  enjoyed  a 
moment  of  peace ;  and  my  mind  involuntarily  went  to  work 
to  reconcile  my  opinions  to  my  looser  life.  It  was  necessary 
to  bring  my  convictions  and  my  conscience  into  harmony 
with  my  conduct,  else  the  warfare  within  me  would  have  been 
unendurable.  The  first  change  related  to  duty.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  God,  remembering  that  I  was  dust,  and  that  I  was 
peculiarly  weak  under  specific  temptations,  would  be  less  rigid 
in  his  requirements  of  me  than  1  had  formerly  supposed.  As 
this  conclusion  seemed  to  make  him  more  lovable  to  me,  I 
permitted  it  to  deceive  me  wholly.  Then  there  was  something 
which  flattered  me  in  being  considered  less  "blue"  than  the 
majority  of  those  who  made  a  profession  of  religion.  It  was 
pleasant  to  be  liberal,  for  liberality  carried  no  condemnation 
with  it  of  the  careless  life  around  me. 

But  this  was  not  all.  It  was  only  the  open  gate  at  which 
I  entered  a  wide  field  of  doubt.  All  my  religious  opinions  took 
on  an  air  of  unreality.  The  old,  implicit  faith  which,  like  an 
angel  with  a  sword  of  flame,  had  stood  at  the  door  of  my 
heart,  comforting  me  with  its  presence,  and  keeping  at  a  dis 
tance  all  the  shapes  of  unbelief,  took  its  flight,  and  the  dark 
band  gathered  closer,  with  a  thousand  questions  and  sugges 
tions.  Was  there  a  God?  Was  the  God  whom  I  had  learned 
to  worship  anything  more  than  a  figment  of  conspiring  im- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  257 

aginations?  If  He  were  more  than  this,  had  he  revealed 
himself  in  words  ?  Was  Jesus  Christ  a  historical  character 
or  a  myth  ?  Was  there  any  such  thing,  after  all,  as  personal 
accountability?  Was  the  daily  conduct  of  so  insignificant  a 
person  as  myself  of  the  slightest  moment  to  a  Being  who  held 
an  infinite  universe  in  charge  ?  Who  knew  that  the  soul 
was  immortal,  and  that  its  condition  here  bore  any  relation  to 
its  condition  there  ?  Was  not  half  of  that  which  I  had  looked 
upon  as  sin,  made  sin  only  by  a  conscience  wrongly  educated? 
Was  drinking  wine  a  sin  in  itself?  If  not,  why  had  it  so  wounded 
me  ?  Other  consciences  did  not  condemn  an  act  which  had 
cost  me  my  peace  and  self-respect.  Who  knew  but  that 
a  thousand  things  which  I  had  considered  wrong  were  only 
wrong  because  1  so  considered  them  ?  After  all  my  pains-tak 
ing  and  my  prayers,  had  I  been  anything  better  than  a  slave 
to  a  conscience  perverted  or  insufficiently  informed  ? 

The  path  from  an  open  violation  of  conscience  to  a  condi 
tion  of  religious  doubt,  is  as  direct  as  that  which  leads  to 
heaven.  It  was  so  in  my  case,  and  the  observation  of  a  long 
life  has  shown  me  that  it  is  so  in  every  case.  Just  in  the  pro 
portion  that  my  practice  degenerated  did  my  views  become 
modified  to  accommodate  themselves  to  my  life. 

I  said  very  little  about  the  changes  going  on  in  my  mind, 
except  to  my  faithful  companion  and  friend,  Henry.  When  he 
returned  from  Bradford,  he,  for  the  first  time,  became  fully 
aware  of  the  great  change  that  had  taken  place  in  me.  He  was 
an  intense  hater  of  sham  and  cant,  and  sympathized  with  me 
in  my  dislike  of  the  type  of  piety  with  which  we  were  often 
thrown  in  contact.  This,  I  suppose,  had  blinded  him  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  trying  to  sustain  myself  in  my  criticism  of  oth 
ers.  I  could  not  hide  my  growing  infidelity  from  him,  however, 
for  it  seemed  necessary  for  me  to  have  some  one  to  talk  with, 
and  1  was  conscious  of  a  new  disposition  to  argue  and  defend 
myself.  Here  I  was  misled  again.  1  fancied  that  my 
modification  of  views  came  of  intellectual  convictions,  and 
that  I  could  not  be  to  blame  for  changes  based  upon  what 


258  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

I  was  fond  of  calling  "my  God-given  reason."  I  lost  sight  of 
the  fact  that  the  changes  came  first,  and  that  the  only  office 
to  which  I  put  "my  God-given  reason"  was  that  of  satisfying 
and  defending  myself.  'Oh,  the  wretched  sophistries  of  those 
wretched  days  and  years  ! 

I  do  not  like  to  speak  so  much  of  prayer  as  I  have  been  com 
pelled  to  in  these  pages,  for  even  this  sounds  like  cant  to  many 
ears ;  but,  in  truth,  I  cannot  write  the  story  of  my  life  without 
it.  I  do  not  believe  there  can  be  such  a  thing  as  a  truly 
religious  life  without  prayer.  The  religious  soul  must  hold 
converse  and  communion  with  the  Infinite  or  its  religion  can 
not  live.  It  may  be  the  simple  expression  of  gratitude  and 
desire.  It  may  be  the  prostration  of  the  soul  in  worship  and 
adoration.  It  may  be  the  up-springing  of  the  spirit  in  strong 
aspiration  ;  but  in  some  way  or  form  there  must  be  prayer,  or 
religion  dies.  There  must  be  an  open  way  between  the  heart 
of  man  and  the  heart  of  the  Infinite — a  ladder  that  reaches 
from  the  pillow  of  stone  to  the  pillars  of  the  Throne,  where 
angels  may  climb  and  angels  may  descend — or  the  religious 
life  of  the  soul  can  have  no  ministry. 

In  my  changed  condition  and  circumstances,  I  found  myself 
deprived  of  this  great  source  of  life.  First  my  sin  shut  me 
away,  and  my  neglect  of  known  and  acknowledged  duty.  Then 
my  frivolous  pursuits  and  trifling  diversions  rendered  me  unfit 
for  the  awful  presence  into  which  prayer  led  me.  Then,  un 
belief  placed  its  bar  before  me.  In  truth,  I  found  in  prayer, 
whenever  I  attempted  it,  only  a  hollow  expression  of  penitence, 
from  a  weak  and  unwilling  heart,  toward  a  being  in  whose  ex 
istence  I  did  not  more  than  half  believe. 

I  bowed  with  Henry  at  our  bed  every  night,  but  it  was  only 
a  mockery.  He  apprehended  it  at  last,  and  questioned  me 
about  it.  One  night,  after  we  had  risen  from  our  knees,  he 
said:  "Arthur,  how  is  it  with  you?  I  don't  understand  how 
a  man  who  talks  as  you  do  can  pray  with  any  comfort  to  himself. 
You  are  not  at  all  what  you  used  to  be." 

"  I'll  be  frank  with  you,  Henry,"  I  answered.     "  I  don't  pray 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  259 

with  any  comfort  to  myself,  or  any  profit  either.  It's  all  a 
sham,  and  I  don't  intend  to  do  any  more  of  it." 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur,  has  it  come  to  this  ! "  exclaimed  the 
dear  fellow,  his  eyes  filling  with  tears.  "  Have  you  gone  so 
far  astray  ?  How  can  you  live  ?  I  should  think  you  would 
die." 

"You  see  !"  I  said  carelessly:  "  I'm  in  very  good  health. 
The  world  goes  on  quite  well.  There  are  no  earthquakes  or 
hurricanes.  The  sun  rises  and  sets  in  the  old  way,  and  the 
wicked  prosper  like  the  righteous,  the  same  as  they  have  always 
done,  and  get  along  without  any  serious  bother  with  their  con 
sciences  besides.  The  fact  is  that  my  views  of  everything 
have  changed,  and  I  don't  pray  as  I  used  to  pray,  simply  be 
cause  the  thing  is  impossible." 

Henry  looked  at  me  while  I  said  this,  with  a  stunned, 
bewildered  expression,  and  then,  putting  his  arms  around  my 
neck,  bowed  his  head  upon  my  shoulder  and  said,  half  choked 
with  emotion  :  "I  can't  bear  it;  I  can't  bear  it.  It  must  not 
be  so." 

Then  he  put  me  off,  and  looked  at  me.  His  eyes  were  dry, 
and  a  determined,  almost  prophetic  expression  was  in  them  as 
he  said  :  "  It  will  not  be  so  ;  it  shall  not  be  so." 

"  How  are  you  going  to  prevent  it  ?  "  I  inquired,  coolly. 

"  I  shall  not  prevent  it,  but  there  is  one  who  will,  you  may 
be  very  sure,"  he  replied.  "There is  a  God,  and  he  hears  the 
prayers  of  those  who  love  him.  You  cannot  prevent  me  from 
praying  for  you,  and  I  shall  do  it  always.  You  and  I  belong 
to  the  same  church,  and  I  am  under  a  vow  to  watch  over 
you.  Besides,  you  and  I  promised  to  help  one  another  in  every 
emergency,  and  I  shall  not  forget  the  promise." 

"  So  I  am  under  a  guardian,  am  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  under  a  guardian — a  very  much  more  powerful 
guardian  than  I  am,"  he  replied. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  be  taken  care  of,  then,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  you  will  be  taken  care  of;  if  not  in  the  mild  way  with 
which  you  have  hitherto  been  treated,  then  in  a  rough  way  to 


260  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

which  you  are  not  used.  The  prayers  and  hopes  and  expecta 
tions  of  such  a  father  as  yours  are  not  to  be  disregarded  or 
go  for  nothing.  By  some  means,  tender  or  terrible,  you  are  to 
be  brought  out  of  your  indifference  and  saved." 

There  was  something  in  this  talk  which  brought  back  to  me 
the  covert  threat  that  1  had  heard  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Brad 
ford,  of  which  I  had  not  thought  much.  Were  he  and  Henry 
leagued  together  in  any  plan  that  would  bring  me  punishment? 
That  was  impossible,  yet  I  grew  suspicious  of 'both  of  them.  I 
did  not  doubt  their  friendship,  yet  the  thing  I  feared  most  was 
an  interference  with  my  prospects  of  wealth.  Was  it  possible 
that  they,  in  case  I  should  not  meet  their  wishes,  would  inform 
Mrs.  Sanderson  of  my  unworthiness  of  her  benefactions,  and 
reduce  me  to  the  necessity  and  shame  of  taking  care  of 
myself?  This  was  the  great  calamity  I  dreaded.  Here  was 
where  my  life  could  onlv  be  touched.  Here  was  where  I  felt 
painfully  sensitive  and  weak. 

A  little  incident  occurred  about  this  time  which  rendered  me 
still  more  suspicious.  I  had  been,  in  the  habit  of  receiving  let 
ters  from  Mrs.  Sanderson,  addressed  in  the  handwriting  of  Mrs. 
Belden.  Indeed,  not  a  few  of  my  letters  from  The  Mansion  were 
written  entirely  by  that  lady,  under  Mrs.  Sanderson's  dictation. 
I  had  in  this  way  become  so  familiar  with  her  hand-writing 
that  I  could  hardly  be  mistaken  in  it,  wherever  I  might  see  it. 
From  the  first  day  of  our  entering  college,  Henry  had  insisted  on 
our  having  separate  boxes  at  the  Post-Office.  I  had  never  known 
the  real  reason  for  this,  nor  had  I  cared  to  inquire  what  it  might 
be.  The  thought  had  crossed  my  mind  that  he  was  not  willing 
to  have  me  know  how  often  he  received  letters  from  my  sister. 
One  morning  he  was  detained  by  a  severe  cold  from  going,  in 
his  accustomed  way,  for  his  mail,  and  as  I  was  at  the  office,  I 
inquired  whether  there  were  letters  for  him.  I  had  no  object 
in  this  but  to  do  him  a  brotherly  service  ;  but  as  his  letters  were 
handed  to  me,  I  looked  them  over,  and  was  startled  to  find  an 
address  in  what  looked  like  Mrs.  Belden's  hand-writing.  I  ex 
amined  it  carefully,  compared  it  with  several  addresses  from  her 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  261 

hand  which  I  had  in  my  pocket,  and  became  sure  that  my  first 
suspicions  were  correct. 

Here  was  food  for  the  imagination  of  a  guilty  man.  I  took 
the  letters  to  Henry,  and  handing  them  to  him  in  a  careless 
way,  remarked  that,  as  I  was  at  the  office,  I  thought  1 
would  save  him  the  trouble  of  sending  for  his  mail.  He 
took  the  package,  ran  it  over  in  his  hand,  selected  the  letter 
that  had  attracted  my  attention,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket  un 
opened.  He  did  not  look  at  me,  and  I  was  sure  he  could  not, 
for  I  detected  a  flush  of  alarm  upon  his  face  at  the  moment  I 
handed  the  letters  to  him.  I  did  not  pause  to  see  more,  or  to 
make  any  inquiry  for  Bradford  friends,  and,  turning  upon  my 
heel,  left  the  room. 

I  could  not  do  else  than  conclude  that  there  was  a  private 
understanding  of  some  sort  between  him  and  Mrs.  Belden. 
What  this  was,  was  a  mystery  which  I  taxed  my  ingenuity  to 
fathom.  My  mind  ran  upon  it  all  day.  I  knew  Henry  had 
seen  Mrs.  Belden  at  Mr.  Bradford's,  and  even  at  my  father's 
during  the  winter,  for  she  had  maintained  her  friendship  for 
Claire.  Could  there  have  sprung  up  a  friendly  intimacy  be 
tween  her  and  Henry  of  which  this  correspondence  was  an 
outgrowth  ?  It  did  not  seem  likely.  However  harmless  my 
surmises  might  be,  I  always  came  back  to  the  conclusion  that 
through  Mrs.  Belden  and  Henry  an  espionage  upon  my  conduct 
had  been  established  by  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  that  all  my  words 
and  acts  had  been  watched  and  reported.  As  soon  as  this 
conviction  became  rooted  in  my  mind,  I  lost  my  faith  in  Henry, 
and  from  that  hour,  for  a  long  time,  shut  away  my  confidence 
from  him.  He  could  not  but  notice  this  change,  and  he  was 
deeply  wounded  by  it.  Through  all  the  remainder  of  the  time 
we  spent  in  college  together,  there  was  a  restraint  in  our  in 
tercourse.  I  spent  as  little  time  with  him  as  possible,  though 
1  threw  new  guards  around  my  conduct,  and  was  careful  that  he 
should  see  and  hear  nothing  to  my  discredit.  I  even  strove, 
in  a  weak  way,  to  regain  something  of  the  ground  I  had  lost  in 


262  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

study ;  but  as  I  was  not  actuated  by  a  worthy  motive,  my  prog 
ress  was  neither  marked  nor  persistent. 

I  certainly  was  not  happy.  .  I  sighed  a  thousand  times  to 
think  of  the  peace  and  inspiration  I  had  lost.  My  better  am 
bitions  were  gone,  my  conscience  was  unsatisfied,  my  disposi 
tion  to  pray  had  fled,  my  Christian  hope  was  extinguished,  and 
my  faith  was  dead.  I  was  despoiled  of  all  that  made  me  truly 
rich ;  and  all  that  I  had  left  were  the  good-will  of  those  around 
me,  my  social  position,  and  the  expectation  of  wealth  which, 
when  it  should  come  into  my  hands,  would  not  only  give  me 
the  luxurious  delights  that  1  craved  as  the  rarest  boon  of  life, 
but  command  the  respect  as  well  of  the  rich  as  of  those  less 
favored  than  myself.  I  longed  to  get  through  with  the  bond 
age  and  the  duty  of  my  college  life.  1  do  not  dare  to  say  that 
I  longed  for  the  death  of  my  benefactress.  I  will  not  acknowl 
edge  that  I  had  become  so  base  as  this,  but  I  could  have  been 
reconciled  to  anything  that  would  irrevocably  place  in  my  power 
the  wealth  and  independence  I  coveted. 

It  is  useless  to  linger  further  over  this  period  of  my  life.  I 
have  traced  with  sufficient  detail  the  influences  which  wrought 
my  transformation.  They  have  been  painful  in  the  writing, 
and  they  must  have  been  equally  painful  in  the  reading,  to  all 
those  who  had  become  interested  in  my  career,  welfare  and 
character.  My  suspicions  that  Henry  was  a  spy  upon  my  con 
duct  were  effaced  for  the  time  whenever  I  went  home.  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  upon  whom  the  passing  years  began  to  lay  a 
heavy  finger,  showed  no  abatement  of  affection  for  me,  and 
seemed  even  more  impatient  than  I  for  the  termination  of  my 
college  life  and  my  permanent  restoration  to  her  home  and  so 
ciety.  Mrs.  Belden  was  as  sweet  and  ladylike  and  cordial  as 
ever.  She  talked  freely  of  Henry  as  one  whom  she  had  learned 
to  admire  and  respect,  and  thought  me  most  fortunate  in  hav 
ing  such  a  companion.  There  was  a  vague  shadow  of  disap 
pointment  on  my  father's  face,  and  I  saw  too,  with  pain,  that 
time  and  toil  had  not  left  him  untouched  with  change. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  263 

My  visits  in  Bradford  always  made  me  better.  So  much  was 
expected  of  me,  so  much  was  I  loved  and  trusted,  so  sweet  and 
friendly  were  all  my  acquaintances,  that  I  never  left  them  to 
return  to  my  college  life  without  fresh  resolutions  to  industry 
and  improvement.  If  these  resolutions  were  abandoned,  those 
who  know  the  power  of  habit  and  the  influence  of  old  and  un- 
renounced  companionships  will  understand  the  reason  why.  I 
had  deliberately  made  my  bed,  and  I  was  obliged  to  lie  in  it. 
My  compliant  disposition  brought  me  uniformly  under  the 
yoke  of  the  old  persuasions  to  indolence  and  frivolous  pursuits. 

Livingston  went  away  when  his  time  came.  There  was 
much  that  was  lovable  in  him.  He  had  a  stronger  character 
than  I,  and  he  had  always  been  so  used  to  wealth  and  the  expec 
tation  of  wealth  that  he  was  less  harmed  than  I  by  these  influ 
ences.  Peter  Mullens  went  away,  and  though  I  occasionally 
heard  about  him,  I  saw  him  no  more  for  several  years.  I 
became  at  last  the  leader  of  my  set,  and  secured  a  certain 
measure  of  respect  from  them  because  I  led  them  into  no 
vicious  dissipations.  In  this  I  took  a  degree  of  pride  and  satis 
faction  ;  but  my  teachers  had  long  abandoned  any  hope  that  I 
should  distinguish  myself,  and  had  come  to  regard  me  coldly. 
My  religious  experiences  were  things  of  the  past.  I  continued 
to  show  a  certain  respect  for  religion,  by  attending  the  public 
services  of  the  church.  I  did  everything  for  the  sake  of 
appearances,  and  for  the  purpose  of  blinding  myself  and  my 
friends  to  the  deadness  and  hollowness  of  a  life  that  had  ceased 
to  be  controlled  by  manly  and  Christian  motives. 

At  last  the  long-looked-for  day  of  release  approached,  and 
although  I  wished  it  to  come,  I  wished  it  were  well  over  and  for 
gotten.  I  had  no  honors  to  receive,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  uni 
versally  expected  that  Henry  would  carry  away  the  highest  of 
his  class.  I  do  not  think  I  envied  him  his  eminence,  for  I 
knew  he  had  nobly  earned  it,  and  that  in  the  absence  of  other 
advantages  it  would  do  him  good.  I  had  money  and  he  had 
scholarship,  which,  in  time,  would  give  him  money.  In  these 
possessions  we  should  be  able  to  start  more  evenly  in  life. 


264  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

The  time  passed  away,  until  the  day  preceding  the  annual 
Commencement  dawned.  In  the  middle  of  this  day's  excite 
ments,  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  room,  there  was  a  rap  at  my  door. 
There  were  a  dozen  of  my  fellows  with  me,  and  we  were  in  a 
merry  mood.  Supposing  the  caller  to  be  a  student,  I  made  a 
response  in  some  slang  phrase,  but  the  door  was  not  opened. 
I  then  went  to  it,  threw  it  wide,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  my 
father.  I  was  not  glad  to  see  him,  and  as  my  nature  was  too 
transparent  to  permit  me  to  deceive  him,  and  he  too  sensitive 
to  fail  of  apprehending  the  state  of  my  feelings,  even  if  1  had 
endeavored  to  do  so,  the  embarrassment  of  the  moment  may 
be  imagined. 

"  Well,  father  !"  I  said,  "this  is  a  surprise  !" 

The  moment  I  pronounced  the  word  "  father,"  the  fellows 
began  to  retire,  with  hurried  remarks  about  engagements,  and 
with  promises  to  call  again.  It  was  hardly  ten  seconds  before 
every  man  of  them  was  out  of  my  room. 

The  dear  old  man  had  dressed  himself  in  his  plain  best,  and  had 
come  to  see  realized  the  great  hope  of  his  life,  and  I,  miserable 
ingrate  that  1  was,  was  ashamed  of  him.  My  fellows  had  fled  the 
room  because  they  knew  1  was,  and  because  they  wished  to  save 
me  the  pain  of  presenting  him  to  them.  As  soon  as  they  were 
gone  I  strove  to  reassure  him,  and  to  convince  him  that  I  was 
heartily  glad  to  see  him.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  make  apolo 
gies  for  me,  and  to  receive  those  which  I  made  for  myself. 
He  had  had  such  precious  faith  in  me  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
have  it  shaken.  He  had  left  his  work  and  come  to  the  City  of 
Elms  to  witness  my  triumphs.  He  had  intended  to  give  me  a 
glad  day.  Indeed,  he  had  had  dreams  of  going  about  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  the  professors,  and  of  being  entertained 
with  a  view  of  all  the  wonders  of  the  college.  I  knew  him  so 
well  that  I  did  not  doubt  that  he  expected  to  be  taken  in  hand 
by  his  affectionate  son  on  his  arrival,  and  conducted  every 
where,  sharing  his  glory.  Never  in  my  life  had  I  received  so 
startling  a  view  of  the  meanness  of  my  own  character  as  on 
that  morning.  I  could  not  possibly  hide  myself  from  myself; 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  265 

and  my  disgust  with  myself  was  measureless.  Here  was  a  man 
whom  I  loved  better  than  I  loved,  or  had  ever  loved,  any  other 
human  being — a  man  worthy  of  my  profoundest  respect — the 
sweetest,  simplest,  purest,  noblest  man  whom  I  had  ever  known, 
with  a  love  in  his  heart  for  me  which  amounted  to  idolatry — yet  I 
could  have  wished  him  a  thousand  miles  away,  rather  than  have 
my  gay  and  aristocratic  companions  find  me  in  association  with 
him,  and  recognize  the  relations  that  existed  between  us. 

What  should  I  do  with  him?  Where  could  I  put  him? 
How  could  I  hide  him  ?  The  thought  of  showing  him  around 
was  torture.  Why  had  he  not  stayed  at  home  ?  What  could 
I  say  to  him  to  explain  my  failure  ?  How  could  I  break  the 
force  of  the  blow  which  he  must  soon  receive  ?  I  inquired 
about  home  and  its  affairs.  I  talked  of  everything  but  that 
which  he  most  desired  to  talk  about ;  and  all  the  time  I  was 
contriving  ways  to  cut  him  adrift,  or  to  cover  him  up. 

I  was  saved  the  trouble  I  anticipated  by  my  good  friend 
Henry,  who,  when  he  came,  was  so  heartily  delighted  to  see  my 
father  that  the  whole  course  of  relief  was  made  plain.  Henry 
knew  me  and  my  circumstances,  and  he  knew  that  my  father's 
presence  was  unwelcome.  He  at  once  took  it  upon  himself  to 
say  that  I  had  a  great  many  companions,  and  that  they  would 
want  me  with  them.  So  he  should  have  the  pleasure  of  look 
ing  after  my  father,  and  of  showing  him  everything  he  wanted 
to  see.  He  disregarded  all  my  protests,  and  good-naturedly 
told  me  to  go  where  I  was  wanted. 

The  good  old  man  had  a  pleasant  time.  He  visited  the  cab 
inets,  he  was  introduced  to  the  professors  when  he  chanced  to 
meet  them,  he  saw  all  that  was  worth  seeing.  He  had  a  con 
versation  with  Henry  about  me,  which  saved  me  the  making  of 
apologies  that  would  have  been  essential  falsehoods.  I  had 
won  no  honors,  Henry  told  him,  because  I  had  had  too  much 
money  ;  but  I  was  popular,  was  quite  the  equal  of  many  others, 
and  would  receive  my  degree.  I  saw  them  together,  going 
from  building  to  building  and  walking  under  the  elms  and  along 
the  streets.  That  which  to  my  wretched  vanity  would  have 
12 


266  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

been  pain  was  to  Henry's  self-assured  and  self-respectful  man 
hood  a  rare  pleasure.  I  doubt  whether  he  spent  a  day  during 
his  whole  college  life  more  delightfully  than  that  which  he  spent 
with  my  father. 

At  night  I  had  another  call.  Mr.  Bird  came  in.  I  went  to 
him  in  my  old  way,  sat  down  in  his  ample  lap,  and  put  my 
arms  around  his  neck. 

"Arthur,  my  boy,  I  love  you,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  man 
in  you  still,  but  all  that  I  feared  might  be  the  result  of  your  cir 
cumstances  has  happened.  Henry  has  outstripped  you,  and 
while  we  are  all  glad  for  him,  we  are  all  disappointed  in  you." 

I  tried  to  talk  in  a  gay  way  about  it,  but  I  was  troubled  and 
ashamed. 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  seen  your  father  to-day,"  he  said. 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No  matter  what  he  said  :  he  is  not  happy.  You  have  disap 
pointed  him,  but  he  will  not  upbraid  you.  He  is  pained  to  feel 
that  privileges  which  seemed  to  him  inestimable  should  have 
been  so  poorly  improved,  and  that  the  boy  from  whom  he 
hoped  and  for  whom  he  has  sacrificed  so  much  should  have 
shown  himself  so  careless  and  unworthy." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  him,"  I  said. 

"Very  well,  my  boy  ;  and  now  tell  me,  has  the  kind  of  life 
which  has  cost  him  so  much  pain  paid  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Are  you  going  to  change  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  :  I  doubt  if  I  do,"  I  responded. 

"  Has  money  been  a  good  thing  for  you  ?" 

"  No  ;  it  has  been  a  curse  to  me." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  relinquish  it  ?  " 

"  No :  I'm  spoiled  for  poverty.     It's  too  late." 

"  Is  it  ?     We'll  see." 

Then  the  good  man,  with  a  stern  look  upon  his  face,  kissed 
me  as  he  used  to  in  the  old  times,  and  took  his  leave. 

Here  was  another  warning  or  threat,  and  it  filled  me  with 
uneasiness.  Long  after  Henry  had  fallen  asleep  that  night,  I 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  267 

lay  revolving  it  in  my  mind.  I  began  to  feel  that  I  had  been 
cruelly  treated.  If  money  had  spoiled  me,  who  had  been  to 
blame?  It  was  forced  upon  me,  my  father  consenting.  It 
had  wrought  out  its  natural  influence  upon  me.  Somebody 
ought  to  have  foreseen  it.  I  had  been  wronged,  and  was  now 
blamed  for  that  which  others  were  responsible  for. 

Commencement  day  came,  with  its  crowd  of  excitements. 
The  church  in  which  the  public  exercises  were  held  was 
thronged.  Hundreds  from  the  towns  and  cities  around  had 
assembled  to  witness  the  bestowal  of  the  honors  of  study  upon 
their  friends  and  favorites.  Our  class  had,  as  usual  on  such 
occasions,  our  places  together,  and  as  I  did  not  belong  to  the 
group  of  fellows  who  had  appointments  for  orations,  I  was  with 
the  class.  Taking  my  seat,  I  looked  around  upon  the  multi 
tude.  Beautifully  dressed  ladies  crowded  the  galleries,  and  I 
was  deeply  mortified  that  I  should  win  neither  their  smiles  nor 
their  flowers.  I  was,  for  the  time  at  least,  a  nonentity.  They 
had  eyes  for  none  but  those  who  had  won  the  right  to  ad 
miration. 

At  my  right  I  saw  a  figure  which  I  thought  to  be  that  of  an 
acquaintance.  His  head  was  turned  from  me,  while  he  con 
versed  with  a  strikingly  beautiful  girl  at  his  side.  He  looked 
towards  the  stage  at  last,  and  then  I  saw  that  it  was  Mr.  Brad 
ford.  Could  that  young  woman  be  Millie  ?  I  had  not  seen 
her  since  I  so  shamefully  encountered  her  more  than  two  years 
before.  It  was  Millie.  She  had  ripened  into  womanhood  dur 
ing  this  brief  interval,  and  her  beauty  was  conspicuous  even 
among  the  score  of  beauties  by  which  she  was  surrounded. 

The  orators  came  and  went,  receiving  their  tributes  of  ap- 
plausifcfrom  the  audience,  and  of  flowers  from  their  friends  ;  but 
I  hi!8»no  eyes  for  any  one  but  Millie.  I  could  regard  her  with 
out  hinderance,  for  she  did  not  once  look  at  me.  1  had  always 
carried  the  thought  of  her  in  my  heart  The  little  talks  we 
had  had  together  had  been  treasured  in  my  memory  among  its 
choicest  possessions.  She  had  arrived  at  woman's  estate,  and 
I  had  now  no  laurels  to  lay  at  her  feet.  This  was  the  one 


268  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

pungent  drop  of  gall  in  my  cup  of  wormwood,  for  then  and 
there  I  acknowledged  to  myself  that  in  a  vague  way  I  had 
associated  her  in  my  imagination  with  all  my  future  life.  When 
I  had  dreamed  of  one  who  should  sit  in  Mrs.  Sanderson's  chair, 
after  she  had  passed  away,  it  was  always  Millie.  I  had  not 
loved  her  with  a  man's  love,  but  my  heart  was  all  open  toward 
her,  ready  to  kindle  in  her  smile  or  the  glance  of  her  marvelous 
eyes.  I  knew  there  was  only  one  whom  she  had  come  to  see, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  thought  that  she  could  be  nothing  more 
to  him  than  a  friend,  yet  I  grudged  the  honor  which  he  was  that 
day  to  win  in  her  eyes. 

At  last  the  long  list  of  speakers  was  exhausted,  and  Henry 
came  upon  the  stage  to  deliver  the  valedictory.  He  was  re 
ceived  with  a  storm  of  cheers,  and,  perfectly  self-possessed, 
came  forward  in  his  splendid  young  .manhood  to  perform  his 
part.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Bird  was  somewhere  in  the  audience, 
looking  on  and  listening  with  moistened  eyes  and  swelling 
heart.  I  knew  that  my  father,  in  his  lonely  sorrow,  was  think 
ing  of  his  disappointment  in  me  and  my  career.  I  knew  that 
Mr.  Bradford  find  Millie  were  regarding  Henry  with  a  degree 
of  pride  and  gratification  which,  for  the  moment,  shut  me  out 
of  their  minds.  As  his  voice  rang  out  over  the  vast  congrega 
tion,  and  cheer  after  cheer  greeted  his  splendid  periods,  I  bent 
my  head  with  shame  ;  and  tears  that  had  long  been  strangers  to 
my  eyes  fell  unbidden  down  my  cheeks.  I  inwardly  cursed  my 
indolence,  my  meanness,  and  the  fortune  which  had  enervated 
and  spoiled  me. 

As  Henry  made  his  bow  in  retiring,  there  was  a  long-con 
tinued  and  universal  burst  of  applause,  and  a  rain  of  bouquets 
upon  the  platform  which  half-bewildered  him.  I  watched  for 
the  Bradfords,  and  the  most  beautiful  bouquet  of  all  was  handed 
by  Millie  to  her  father  and  tossed  by  him  at  Henry's  feet.  He 
picked  up  all  the  others,  then  raised  this  to  his  lips,  and,  look 
ing  up  at  the  gallery,  made  a  profound  bow  to  the  giver  and 
retired.  Knowing  that  with  my  quicker  brain  it  had  been  in 
my  power  to  win  that  crowning  honor,  and  that  it  was  irrevo- 


Arthiir  Bonnicastle.  269 

cably  lost  to  me,  the  poor  diploma  that  came  to  me  among  the 
others  of  my  class  gave  me  no  pleasure. 

I  knew  that  the  young  woman  was  right.  She  was  true  to 
her  womanly  instincts,  and  had  no  honors  to  bestow  except 
upon  the  worker  and  the  hero.  The  man  who  had  demon 
strated  his  manhood  won  the  honor  of  her  womanhood.  Henry 
was  everything  ;  I  was  nothing.  "  The  girl  is  right,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "  and  some  time  she  shall  know  that  the  stuff  she  wor 
ships  is  in  me." 

A  young  man  rarely  gets  a  better  vision  of  himself  than  that 
which  is  reflected  from  a  true  woman's  eyes,  for  God  himself 
sits  behind  them.  That  which  a  man  was  intended  to  be  is 
that  which  unperverted  womanhood  demands  that  he  shall  be. 
I  felt  at  the  moment  that  a  new  motive  had  been  born  in  me, 
and  that  I  was  not  wholly  shorn  of  power  and  the  possibilities 
of  heroic  life. 

Before  we  left  New  Haven,  Mr.  Bradford,  Mr.  Bird,  and  my 
father  met  by  appointment.  What  their  business  was  I  did  not 
know,  but  I  had  little  doubt  that  it  related  to  me.  I  was 
vexed  by  the  thought,  but  I  was  too  proud  to  ask  any  ques 
tions.  I  hoped  that  the  whole  Bradford  party  would  find 
themselves  in  the  same  conveyance  on  the  way  home  ;  but  on 
the  morning  following  Commencement,  my  father,  Henry,  and 
myself  took  our  seats  in  the  coach,  and  Mr.  Bradford  and  Mil 
lie  were  left  behind.  I  had  not  spoken  to  either  of  them.  I 
did  not  like  to  call  upon  Millie,  and  her  father  had  not  sought 
me. 

I  was  not  disposed  to  talk,  and  all  the  conversation  was 
carried  on  by  my  father  and  Henry.  I  saw  that  the  young 
man  had  taken  a  warm  place  near  my  father's  heart — that  they 
understood  and  appreciated  one  another  perfectly.  Remember 
ing  what  an  idol  I  had  been,  and  how  cruelly  I  had  defaced  my 
own  lineaments  and  proved  myself  unworthy  of  the  worship,  a 
vision  of  this  new  friendship  was  not  calculated  to  increase  my 
happiness.  But  I  was  full  of  my  plans.  I  would  win  Millie 
Bradford's  respect  or  I  would  die.  My  imagination  constructed 


270  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

all  sorts  of  impossible  situations  in  which  I  was  to  play  the  part 
of  hero,  and  compel  her  admiration.  I  would  devote  myself  to 
labor  ;  I  would  acquire  a  profession  ;  I  would  achieve  renown  ; 
I  would  become  an  orator ;  I  would  win  office ;  I  would 
wrench  a  bough  from  the  highest  laurel,  and,  dashing  it  at  her 
feet,  say :  "  There !  I  have  earned  your  approval  and  your 
smile  ;  give  them  to  me  ! " 

The  practical  power  that  resides  in  this  kind  of  vaporing 
is  readily  appreciated.  I  had  at  last  my  opportunity  to  de 
monstrate  my  possession  of  heroism,  but  it  did  not  come  in  the 
form  I  anticipated  and  hoped  for. 

Our  welcome  home  was  cordial.  My  poor  mother  thought 
I  had  grown  thin,  and  was  afraid  I  had  studied  too  much.  The 
unintended  sarcasm  did  not  reassure  me.  Henry  and  Claire 
were  happy,  and  I  left  the  beloved  group  to  seek  my  own 
lonelier  home.  There  I  manifested  a  delight  I  did  not  feel.  I 
tossed  my  diploma  into  Mrs.  Sanderson's  lap,  and  lightly  told  her 
that  there  was  the  bit  of  sheepskin  which  had  cost  her  so  much. 
Mrs.  Belden  congratulated  me,  and  the  two  women  were  glad 
to  have  me  at  home.  I  spent  the  evening  with  them,  and  led 
the  conversation,  so  far  as  I  could,  into  channels  that  diverted 
their  minds  from  uncomfortable  inquiries. 

Our  life  soon  took  on  the  old  habits,  and  I  heartily  tried  to 
make  myself  tributary  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  the 
house.  Poor  old  Jenks  was  crippled  with  rheumatism,  and  while 
he  was  made  to  believe  that  the  domestic  establishment  could 
not  be  operated  without  him,  he  had  in  reality  become  a  burden. 
As  the  weather  grew  intensely  hot,  and  Mrs.  Sanderson  showed 
signs  of  weakness,  Mrs.  Belden  took  her  away  to  the  seaside 
again,  leavirig  me  once  more  the  master  of  The  Mansion. 

A  little  incident  occurred  on  the  morning  of  Mrs.  Sander 
son's  departure  which  left  an  uncomfortable  impression  upon 
my  mind.  She  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her.  As  the  carriage  was  waiting  for  her,  I  unthink 
ingly  opened  the  door,  and  found  her  before  the  picture.  The 
tears  were  on  her  cheeks,  and  she  looked  pale  and  distressed. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  271 

I  impulsively  put  my  arm  around  her,  bent  down  and  kissed 
her,  and  led  her  away.  As  I  did  this,  I  determined  that  I 
would  find  out  the  secret  of  that  picture  if  I  could.  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  trusted  with  it,  and  I  would  have  it.  I  did  not 
doubt  that  many  in  the  town  could  tell  me  all  about  it,  though 
I  knew  there  were  reasons  connected  with  my  relations  to  Mrs. 
Sanderson  which  had  thus  far  forbidden  them  to  speak  to  me 
about  it 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HENRY     BECOMES    A   GUEST    AT    THE     MANSION    BY   FORCE    OF 
CIRCUMSTANCES. 

IT  was  natural  that  the  first  business  which  presented  itself 
to  be  done  after  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Sanderson,  should  be 
the  reinstatement  of  my  social  relations  with  the  Bradfords,  yet 
how  it  could  be  effected  without  an  invitation  from  them  I 
could  not  imagine.  I  knew  that  they  were  all  at  home,  and 
that  Henry  and  Claire  had  called  upon  them.  Day  after  day 
passed,  however,  and  I  heard  nothing  from  them.  The  time 
began  to  drag  heavily  on  my  idle  hands,  when,  one  pleasant 
evening,  Mr.  Bradford  made  his  appearance  at  The  Mansion. 
I  had  determined  upon  the  course  to  be  pursued  whenever  I 
should  meet  him,  and  after  some  common-place  conversation, 
I  said  to  him,  with  all  my  old  frankness,  that  I  wished  to  open 
my  heart  to  him. 

"  I  cannot  hide  from  myself  the  fact,"  I  said,  "  that  I  am  in 
disgrace  with  you  and  your  family.  Please  tell  me  what  I  can 
do  to  atone  for  a  past  for  which  I  can  make  no  apology.  Do 
you  wish  to  see  me  at  your  house  again  ?  Am  I  to  be  shut 
out  from  your  family,  and  shut  up  here  in  a  palace  which  your 
proscription  will  make  a  prison  ?  If  I  cannot  have  the  respect 
of  those  whom  I  love  best,  I  may  as  well  die." 

The  tears  filled  my  eyes,  and  he  could  have  had  no  doubt  as 
to  the  genuineness  of  my  emotion,  though  he  made  no  imme 
diate  reply.  He  looked  at  me  gravely,  and  hesitated  as  if  he 
were  puz/.led  as  to  the  best  way  to  treat  me. 

At  length  he  said :  "  Well,  Arthur,  I  am  glad  you  have  got 
as  far  as  this — that  'you  have  discovered  that  money  cannot  buy 
everything,  and  that  there  are  things  in  the  world  so  much  more 


Arthur  Bonnuastle.  273 

precioas  than  money,  that  money  itself  is  good  for  nothing 
without  them.  It  is  well,  at  least,  to  have  learned  so  much, 
but  the  question  with  me  is :  how  far  will  this  conviction  be  per 
mitted  to  take  practical  hold  of  your  life  ?  What  are  your  plans  ? 
What  do  you  propose  to  do  to  redeem  yourself?  " 

"  I  will  do  anything,"  I  answered  warmly  and  impulsively. 

"  That  is  very  indefinite,"  he  responded,  "  and  if  you  have 
no  plans  there  is  no  use  in  our  talking  further  upon  the  sub 
ject." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  "  I  inquired,  with  a  feeling 
that  he  was  wronging  me. 

"  Nothing — certainly  nothing  that  is  not  born  of  a  principle. 
If  there  is  no  higher  purpose  in  you  than  that  of  regaining  the 
good  opinion  of  your  friends  and  neighbors,  you  will  do  nothing. 
When  you  wish  to  become  a  man  for  manhood's  sake,  your 
purpose  of  life  and  work  will  come,  and  it  will  be  a  worthy  one. 
When  your  life  proceeds  from  a  right  principle,  you  will  secure 
the  respect  of  everybody,  though  you  will  care  very  little  about 
it — certainly  much  less  than  you  care  now.  My  approval  will 
avail  little  ;  you  have  always  had  my  love  and  my  faith  in  your 
ability  to  redeem  yourself.  As  for  my  home  it  is  always  open 
to  you,  and  there  is  no  event  that  would  make  it  brighter  for 
me  than  to  see  you  making  a  man's  use  of  your  splendid 
opportunities." 

We  had  further  talk,  but  it  was  not  of  a  character  to  reassure 
me,  for  I  was  conscious  that  I  lacked  the  one  thing  which  he 
deemed  essential  to  my  improvement.  Wealth,  with  its  immu 
nities  and  delights,  had  debauched  me,  and  though  I  craved  the 
good  opinion  of  the  Bradfords,  it  was  largely  because  I  had 
associated  Millie  with  my  future.  It  was  my  selfishness  and 
my  natural  love  of  approbation  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  it  all ; 
and  as  soon  as  I  comprehended  myself  I  saw  that  Mr.  Bradford 
understood  me.  He  had  studied  me  through  and  through, 
and  had  ceased  to  entertain  any  hope  of  improvement  ex 
cept  through  a  change  of  circumstances. 

As  I  went  to  the  door  with  him,  and  looked  out  into  the 
12* 


274  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

night,  two  dark  figures  were  visible  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
They  were  standing  entirely  still  when  the  door  was  opened, 
for  the  light  from  the  hall  revealed  them.  They  immediately 
moved  on,  but  the  sight  of  them  arrested  Mr.  Bradford  on  the 
step.  When  they  had  passed  beyond  hearing,  he  turned  to  rue 
and,  in  a  low  voice,  said :  "  Look  to  all  your  fastenings  to 
night.  There  is  a  gang  of  suspicious  fellows  about  town,  and 
already  two  or  three  burglaries  have  been  committed.  There 
may  be  no  danger,  but  it  is  well  to  be  on  your  guard." 

Though  I  was  naturally  nervous  and  easily  excited  in  my  im 
agination,  I  was  by  no  means  deficient  in  physical  courage, 
and  no  child  in  physical  prowess.  I  was  not  afraid  of  anything 
I  could  see ;  but  the  thought  of  a  night-visitation  from  ruffians 
was  quite  enough  to  keep  me  awake,  particularly  as  I  could 
not  but  be  aware  that  The  Mansion  held  much  that  was  valu 
able  and  portable,  and  that  I  was  practically  alone.  Mr.  Brad 
ford's  caution  was  quite  enough  to  put  all  my  senses  on  tension 
and  destroy  my  power  to  sleep.  That  there  were  men  about 
the  house  in  the  night  I  had  evidence  enough,  both  while  I  lay 
listening,  and,  on  the  next  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  gar 
den,  where  they  had  walked  across  the  flower-beds. 

I  called  at  the  Bradfords'  the  next  day,  meeting  no  one,  how 
ever,  save  Mr.  Bradford,  and  reported  what  I  had  heard  and 
seen.  He  looked  grave,  and  while  we  were  speaking  a  neigh 
bor  entered  who  reported  two  burglaries  which  had  occurred  on 
the  previous  night,  one  of  them  at  a  house  beyond  The  Man 
sion. 

"  I  shall  spend  the  night  in  the  streets,"  said  Mr.  Bradford 
decidedly. 

"Who  will  guard  your  own  house?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  shall  depend  upon  Aunt  Flick's  ears  and  Dennis's  hands," 
he  replied. 

Our  little  city  had  greatly  changed  in  ten  years.  The  first 
railroad  had  been  built,  manufactures  had  sprung  up,  business 
and  population  had  increased,  and  the  whole  social  aspect  of 
the  place  had  been  revolutionized.  It  had  entirely  outgrown 


Arthur  Bounicastle.  275 

its  unchanged  police  machinery  and  appointments,  and  now, 
when  there  was  a  call  for  efficient  surveillance,  the  authorities 
were  sadly  inadequate  to  the  occasion.  Under  Mr.  Brad 
ford's  lead,  a  volunteer  corps  of  constables  was  organized  and 
sworn  into  office,  and  a  patrol  established  which  promised  pro 
tection  to  the  persons  and  property  of  the  citizens. 

The  following  night  was  undisturbed.  No  suspicious  men 
were  encountered  in  the  street ;  and  the  second  night  passed 
away  in  the  same  peaceable  manner.  Several  of  the  volunteer 
constables,  supposing  that  the  danger  was  past,  declined  to 
watch  longer,  though  Mr.  Bradford  and  a  faithful  and  spirited 
few  still  held  on.  The  burglars  were  believed  by  him  to  be 
still  in  the  city,  under  cover,  and  waiting  either  for  an  opportunity 
to  get  away,  or  to  add  to  their  depredations.  I  do  not  think 
that  Mr.  Bradford  expected  his  own  house  to  be  attacked,  but, 
from  the  location  of  The  Mansion,  and  Mrs.  Sanderson's  repu 
tation  for  wealth,  I  know  that  he  thought  it  more  than  likely 
that  I  should  have  a  visit  from  the  marauders.  During  these 
two  nights  of  watching,  I  slept  hardly  more  than  on  the  night 
when  I  discovered  the  loiterers  before  the  house.  It  began  to  be 
painful,  for  I  had  no  solid  sleep  until  after  the  day  had  dawned. 
The  suspense  wore  upon  me,  and  I  dreaded  the  night  as  much 
as  if  I  had  been  condemned  to  pass  it  alone  in  a  forest.  I  had 
said  nothing  to  Jenks  or  the  cook  about  the  matter,  and  was 
all  alone  in  my  consciousness  of  danger,  as  I  was  alone  in 
the  power  to  meet  it.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  called 
upon  Henry,  and  asked  as  a  personal  favor  that  he  would  come 
and  pass  at  least  one  night  with  me.  He  seemed  but  little  in 
clined  to  favor  my  request,  and  probably  would  not  have  done 
so  had  not  a  refusal  seemed  like  cowardice.  At  nine  o'clock, 
however,  he  made  his  appearance,  and  we  went  immediately  to 
bed. 

Fortified  by  a  sense  of  protection  and  companionship,  I 
sank  at  once  into  a  slumber  so  profound  that  a  dozen  men 
might  have  ransacked  the  house  without  waking  me.  Though 
Henry  went  to  sleep,  as  he  afterwards  told  me,  at  his  usual 


276  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

hour,  he  slept  lightly,  for  his  own  fears  had  been  awakened  by 
the  circumstances  into  which  I  had  brought  him.  We  both 
slept  until  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  there  came 
to  me  in  the  middle  of  a  dream  a  crash  which  was  incorporated 
into  my  dream  as  the  discharge  of  a  cannon  and  the  rattle  of 
musketry,  followed  by  the  groans  of  the  dying.  I  awoke  be 
wildered,  and  impulsively  threw  my  hand  over  to  learn  whether 
Henry  was  at  my  side.  I  found  the  clothes  swept  from  the 
bed  as  if  they  had  been  thrown  off  in  a  sudden  waking  and 
llight,  and  his  place  empty.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  conscious  at 
the  same  time  that  a  struggle  was  in  progress  near  me,  but  in 
the  dark.  I  struck  a  light,  and,  all  unclad  as  I  was,  ran  into 
the  hall.  As  I  passed  the  door,  I  heard  a  heavy  fall,  and 
caught  a  confused  glimpse  of  two  figures  embracing  and  rolling 
heavily  down  the  broad  stairway.  In  my  haste  I  almost  tum 
bled  over  a  man  lying  upon  the  floor. 

"  Hold  on  to  him — here's  Arthur,"  the  man  shouted,  and  I 
recognized  the  voice  of  old  Jenks. 

"  What  are  you  here  for,  Jenks  ?  "  I  shouted. 
"I'm  hurt,"  said  Jenks,  "but  don't  mind  me.     Hold  on  to 
him  !  hold  on  to  him  !  " 

Passing  Jenks,  I  rushed  down  the  staircase,  and  found 
Henry  kneeling  upon  the  prostrate  figure  of  a  ruffian,  and 
holding  his  hands  with  a  grip  of  iron.  My  light  had  already 
been  seen  in  the  street ;  and  1  heard  shouts  without,  and  a 
hurried  tramping  of  men.  I  set  my  candle  down,  and  was  at 
Henry's  side  in  an  instant,  asking  him  what  to  do. 

"  Open  the  door,  and  call  for  help,"  he  answered  between 
his  teeth.  "  I  am  faint  and  cannot  hold  on  much  longer." 

I  sprang  to  the  door,  and  while  I  was  pushing  back  the  bolt 
was  startled  by  a  rap  upon  the  outside,  and  a  call  which  I 
recognized  at  once  as  that  of  Mr.  Bradford.  Throwing  the 
door  open,  he,  with  two  others,  leaped  in,  and  comprehended 
the  situation  of  affairs.  Closing  it  behind  him,  Mr.  Bradford 
told  Henry  to  let  the  fellow  rise.  Henry  did  not  stir.  The 
rutrun  lay  helplessly  rolling  up  his  eyes,  while  Henry's  head 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  277 

dropped  upon  his  prisoners  breast.  The  brave  fellow  was 
badly  hurt,  and  had  fainted.  Mr.  Bradford  stooped  and  lifted 
his  helpless  form,  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  and  bore  him  up 
stairs,  while  his  companions  pinioned  his  antagonist,  and 
dragged  him  out  of  the  door,  where  his  associate  stood  under 
guard.  The  latter  had  been  arrested  while  running  away,  on 
the  approach  of  Mr.  Bradford  and  his  posse. 

Depositing  his  burden  upon  a  bed,  Mr.  Bradford  found 
another  candle  and  came  down  to  light  it.  Giving  hurried 
directions  to  his  men  as  to  the  disposition  of  the  arrested 
burglars,  he  told  one  of  them  to  bring  Aunt  Flick  at  once  from 
his  house,  and  another  to  summon  a  surgeon.  In  five  minutes 
the  house  would  have  been  silent  save  for  the  groanings  of 
poor  old  Jenks,  who  still  lay  where  he  fell,  and  the  screams  of 
the  cook,  who  had,  at  last,  been  wakened  by  the  din  and  com 
motion. 

As  soon  as  Henry  began  to  show  signs  of  recovery  from  his 
fainting  fit  we  turned  our  attention  to  Jenks,  who  lay  patiently 
upon  the  floor,  disabled  partly  by  his  fall,  and  partly  by  his 
rheumatism.  Lifting  him  carefully,  we  carried  him  to  his  bed, 
and  he  was  left  in  my  care  while  Mr.  Bradford  went  back  to 
Henry. 

Old  Jenks,  who  had  had  a  genuine  encounter  with  ruffians 
in  the  dark,  seemed  to  be  compensated  for  all  his  hurts  and 
dangers  by  having  a  marvelous  story  to  tell  and  this  he  told 
to  me  in  detail.  He  had  been  wakened  in  the  night  by  a  noise. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  somebody  was  trying  to  get  into  the  house. 
He  lay  until  he  felt  his  bed  jarred  by  some  one  walking  in  the 
room  below.  Then  he  heard  a  little  cup  rattle  on  his  table — 
a  little  cup  with  a  teaspoon  in  it.  Satisfied  that  there  was 
some  one  in  the  house  who  did  not  belong  in  it,  he  rose,  and 
undertook  to  make  his  way  to  my  room  for  the  purpose  of  giv 
ing  me  the  information,  lie  was  obliged  to  reach  me  through 
a  passage  that  led  from  the  back  part  of  the  house.  This  he 
undertook  to  do  in  the  stealthy  and  silent  fashion  of  which  he 
was  an  accomplished  master,  and  had  reached  the  staircase 


278  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

that  led  from  the  grand  hall,  when  he  encountered  the  intruder 
who,  taking  him  at  once  for  an  antagonist,  knocked  him  down. 
The  noise  of  this  encounter  woke  Henry,  who  sprang  from  his 
bed,  and,  in  a  fierce  grapple  with  the  rascal,  threw  him  and 
rolled  with  him  to  the  bottom  of  the  staircase. 

I  could  not  learn  that  the  old  man  had  any  bones  broken,  or 
that  he  had  suffered  much  except  by  the  shock  upon  his  nervous 
system  and  the  cruel  jar  he  had  received  in  his  rheumatic  joints. 
After  a  while,  having  administered  a  cordial,  I  left  him  with  the 
assurance  that  I  should  be  up  for  the  remainder  of  the  night 
and  that  he  could  sleep  in  perfect  safety.  Returning  to  my 
room  I  found  Aunt  Flick  already  arrived,  and  busy  with  service 
at  Henry's  side.  The  surgeon  came  soon  afterwards,  and 
having  made  a  careful  examination,  declared  that  Henry  had 
suffered  a  bad  fracture  of  the  thigh,  and  that  he  must  on  no  ac 
count  be  moved  from  the  house. 

At  this  announcement,  Mr.  Bradford,  Henry  and  I  looked  at 
one  another  with  a  pained  and  puzzled  expression.  We  said 
nothing,  but  the  same  thought  was  running  through  our  minds. 
Mrs.  Sanderson  must  know  of  it,  and  how  would  she  receive 
and  treat  it  ?  She  had  a  strong  prejudice  against  Henry,  of 
which  we  were  all  aware.  Would  she  blame  me  for  the  invita 
tion  that  had  brought  him  there  ?  would  she  treat  him  well,  and 
make  him  comfortable  while  there  ? 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,"  said  Aunt  Flick  sharply, 
"  and  if  the  old  lady  makes  a  fuss  about  it  I  shall  give  her  a 
piece  of  my  mind." 

"  Let  it  be  small,"  said  Henry,  smiling  through  his  pain. 

The  adjustment  of  the  fracture  was  a  painful  and  tedious 
process,  which  the  dear  fellow  bore  with  the  fortitude  that  was 
his  characteristic.  It  was  hard  for  rne  to  think  that  he  had 
passed  through  his  great  danger  and  was  suffering  this  pain  for 
me,  though  to  tell  the  truth,  I  half  envied  him  the  good  fortune 
that  had  demonstrated  his  prowess  and  had  made  him  for  the 
time  the  hero  of  the  town.  These  unworthy  thoughts  I  thrust 
from  my  mind,  and  determined  on  thorough  devotion  to  the 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  279 

companion  who  had  risked  so  much  for  me,  and  who  had  pos 
sibly  been  the  means  of  saving  my  life. 

It  seemed,  in  the  occupation  and  absorption  of  the  occasion, 
but  an  hour  after  my  waking,  before  the  day  began  to  dawn  ; 
and  leaving  Aunt  Flick  with  Henry,  Mr.  Bradford  and  I  retired 
for  consultation. 

It  was  decided  at  once  that  Mrs.  Sanderson  would  be  of 
fended  should  we  withhold  from  her,  for  any  reason,  the  news 
of  what  had  happened  in  her  house.  The  question  was  whether 
she  should  be  informed  of  it  by  letter,  or  whether  Mr.  Bradford 
or  I  should  go  to  her  on  the  morning  boat,  and  tell  her  the 
whole  story,  insisting  that  she  should  remain  where  she  was  un 
til  Henry  could  be  moved.  Mr.  Bradford  had  reasons  of  his 
own  for  believing  that  it  was  best  that  she  should  get  her  intel 
ligence  from  me,  and  it  was  decided  that  while  he  remained  in 
or  near  the  house,  I  should  be  the  messenger  to  my  aunt,  and 
ascertain  her  plans  and  wishes. 

Accordingly,  bidding  Henry  a  hasty  good-morning,  and  de 
clining  a  breakfast  for  which  I  had  no  appetite,  I  walked  down 
to  the  steamer,  and  paced  her  decks  during  all  her  brief  pas 
sage,  in  the  endeavor  to  dissipate  the  excitement  of  which  I 
had  not  been  conscious  until  after  my  departure  from  the  house. 
I  found  my  aunt  and  Mrs.  Belden  enjoying  the  morning  breeze 
on  the  shady  piazza  of  their  hotel.  Mrs.  Sanderson  rose  with 
excitement  as  I  approached  her,  while  her  companion  became 
as  pale  as  death.  Both  saw  something  in  my  face  that  betok 
ened  trouble,  and  neither  seemed  able  to  do  more  than  to  utter 
an  exclamation  of  surprise.  Several  guests  of  the  house  being 
near  us,  I  offered  my  arm  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  said : 

"  Let  us  go  to  your  parlor  :  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

We  went  tip-stairs,  Mrs.  Belden  following  us.  When  we 
reached  the  door,  the  latter  said  :  "  Shall  I  come  in  too  ? " 

"  Certainly,"  I  responded.  "  You  will  learn  all  I  have  to 
tell,  and  you  may  as  well  learn  it  from  me." 

We  sat  down  and  looked  at  one  another.  Then  I  said  : 
"  We  have  had  a  burgJary." 


2 So  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Both  ladies  uttered  an  exclamation  of  terror. 

"  What  was  carried  away  ?  "   said  Mrs.  Sanderson  sharply. 

"  The  burglars  themselves,"  I  answered. 

"  And  nothing  lost  ?  " 

"  No'diing." 

"  And  no  one  hurt  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that,"  I  answered.  "  That  is  the  saddest  part 
of  it.  Old  Jenks  was  knocked  down,  and  the  man  who  saved 
the  house  came  out  of  his  struggle  with  a  badly  broken  limb." 

"  Who  was  he  ?     How  came  he  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Henry  Hulm  ;  I  invited  him.  I  was  worn  out  with  three 
nights  of  watching." 

Mrs.  Sanderson  sat  like  one  struck  dumb,  while  Mrs.  Bel- 
den,  growing  paler,  fell  in  a  swoon  upon  the  floor.  I  lifted  her 
to  a  sofa,  and  calling  a  servant  to  care  for  her,  after  she  began 
to  show  signs  of  returning  consciousness,  took  my  aunt  into 
her  bed-room,  closed  the  door,  and  told  her  the  whole  story  in 
detail.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  surprised  by  the  result.  She 
always  had  the  readiest  way  of  submitting  to  the  inevitable  of 
any  person  I  ever  saw.  She  knew  at  once  that  it  was  best  for 
her  to  go  home,  to  take  charge  of  her  own  house,  to  superin 
tend  the  recovery  of  Henry,  and  to  treat  him  so  well  that  no 
burden  of  obligation  should  rest  upon  her.  She  knew  at  once 
that  any  coldness  or  lack  of  attention  on  her  part  would  be 
condemned  by  all  her  neighbors.  She  knew  that  she  must  put 
out  of  sight  all  her  prejudice  against  the  young  man,  and  so 
load  him  with  attentions  and  benefactions  that  he  could  never 
again  look  upon  her  with  indifference,  or  treat  her  with  even 
constructive  discourtesy. 

While  we  sat  talking,  Mrs.  Belden  rapped  at  the  door,  and 
entered. 

"  I  am  sure  we  had  better  go  home,"  she  said,  tremblingly. 

"  That  is  already  determined,"  responded  my  aunt. 

With  my  assistance,  the  trunks  were  packed  long  before  the 
boat  returned,  the  bills  at  the  hotel  were  settled,  and  the  ladies 
were  ready  for  the  little  journey. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  281 

I  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Belden  so  thoroughly  deposed  from 
her  self-possession  as  she  seemed  all  the  way  home.  Her  agi 
tation,  which  had  the  air  of  impatience,  increased  as  we  came 
in  sight  of  Bradford,  and  when  we  arrived  at  the  door  of  The 
Mansion,  and  alighted,  she  could  hardly  stand,  but  staggered 
up  the  walk  like  one  thoroughly  ill.  I  was  equally  distressed 
and  perplexed  by  the  impression  which  the  news  had  made 
upon  her,  for  she  had  always  been  a  marvel  of  equanimity  and 
self-control. 

We  met  the  surgeon  and  Mr.  Bradford  at  the  door.  They 
had  good  news  to  tell  of  Henry,  who  had  passed  a  quiet  day ; 
but  poor  old  Jenks  had  shown  signs  of  feverish  reaction,  and 
had  been  anxiously  inquiring  when  I  should  return.  Aunt 
Flick  was  busy  in  Henry's  room.  My  aunt  mounted  at  once 
to  the  young  man's  chamber  with  the  surgeon  and  myself. 

Aunt  Flick  paused  in  her  work  as  we  entered,  made  a  distant 
bow  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  waited  to  see  what  turn  affairs 
would  take,  while  she  held  in  reserve  that  "  piece  of  her  mind  " 
which  contingently  she  had  determined  to  hurl  at  the  little  mis 
tress  of  the  establishment. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  triumph  over  both  Henry  and  his 
spirited  guardian,  that  I  witnessed  Mrs.  Sanderson's  meeting 
with  my  friend.  She  sat  down  by  his  bedside,  and  took  his 
pale  hand  in  both  her  own  little  hands,  saying  almost  tenderly  : 
"  I  have  heard  all  the  story,  so  that  there  is  nothing  to  say, 
except  for  me  to  thank  you  for  protecting  my  house,  and  to 
assure  you  that  while  you  remain  here  you  will  be  a  thousand 
times  welcome,  and  have  every  service  and  attention  you  need. 
Give  yourself  no  anxiety  about  anything,  but  get  well  as  soon 
as  you  can.  There  are  three  of  us  who  have  nothing  in  the 
world  to  do  but  to  attend  you  and  help  you." 

A  tear  stole  down  Henry's  cheek  as  she  said  this,  and  she 
reached  over  with  her  dainty  handkerchief,  and  wiped  it  away 
as  tenderly  as  if  he  had  been  a  child. 

I  looked  at  Aunt  Flick,  and  found  her  face  curiously  puck 
ered  in  the  attempt  to  keep  back  the  tears.  Then  my  aunt 


282  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

addressed  her,  thanking  her  for  her  service,  and  telling  her  that 
she  could  go  home  and  rest,  as  the  family  would  be  quite  suffi 
cient  for  the  nursing  of  the  invalid.  The  woman  could  not 
say  a  word.  She  was  prepared  for  any  emergency  but  this, 
and  so,  bidding  Henry  good-night,  she  retired  from  the  room 
and  the  house. 

When  supper  was  announced,  Mrs.  Sanderson  and  I  went 
down  stairs.  We  met  Mrs.  Belden  at  the  foot,  who  declared 
that  she  was  not  in  a  condition  to  eat  anything,  and  would  go 
up  and  sit  with  Henry.  We  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but  she  was 
decided,  and  my  aunt  and  I  passed  on  into  the  dining-room. 
Remembering  when  I  arrived  there  that  I  had  not  seen  Jenks, 
I  excused  myself  for  a  moment,  and  as  silently  as  possible 
remounted  the  stairs.  As  I  passed  Henry's  door,  I  impulsively 
pushed  it  open.  It  made  no  noise,  and  there,  before  me, 
Mrs.  Belden  knelt  at  Henry's  bed,  with  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  her  cheek  lying  against  his  own.  I  pulled  back  the 
door  as  noiselessly  as  I  had  opened  it,  and  half  stunned  by 
what  I  had  seen,  passed  on  through  the  passage  that  led  to  the 
room  of  the  old  servant.  The  poor  man  looked  haggard  and 
wretched,  while  his  eyes  shone  strangely  above  cheeks  that 
burned  with  the  flush  of  fever.  I  had  been  so  astonished  by 
what  I  had  seen  that  I  could  hardly  give  rational  replies  to  his 
inquiries. 

"  I  doubt  if  I  weather  it,  Mr.  Arthur ;  what  do  you  think  ?  " 
said  he,  fairly  looking  me  through  to  get  at  my  opinion. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  all  right  in  a  few  days,"  I  responded. 
"  Don't  give  yourself  any  care.  I'll  see  that  you  are  attended 
to." 

"  Thank  you.     Give  us  your  hand." 

I  pressed  his  hand,  attended  to  some  trifling  service  that  he 
required  of  me,  and  went  down  stairs  with  a  sickening  mis 
giving  concerning  my  old  friend.  He  was  shattered  and  worn, 
and,  though  I  was  but  little  conversant  with  disease,  there  was 
something  in  his  appearance  that  alarmed  me,  and  made  me 
feel  that  he  had  reached  his  death-bed. 


Mrs.  Udden  knelt  at  Hc-nry'b  bed,  with  her  arm  around  his  neck. 

(p.  282.) 


Arthiir  Bonnicastle.  283 

With  the  memory  of  the  scene  which  I  had  witnessed  in 
Henry's  room  fresh  in  my  mind,  with  all  its  strange  sugges 
tions,  and  with  the  wild,  inquiring  look  of  Jenks  still  before  me, 
I  had  little  disposition  to  make  conversation.  Yet  I  looked 
up  occasionally  at  my  aunt's  face,  to  give  her  the  privilege 
of  speaking,  if  she  were  disposed  to  talk.  She,  however,  was 
quite  as  much  absorbed  as  myself.  She  did  not  look  sad. 
There  played  around  her  mouth  a  quiet  smile,  while  her  eyes 
shone  with  determination  and  enterprise.  Was  it  possible  that 
she  was  thinking  that  she  had  Henry  just  where  she  wanted 
him  ?  Was  she  glad  that  she  had  in  her  house  and  hands  an 
other  spirit  to  mould  and  conquer  ?  Was  she  delighted  that 
something  had  come  for  her  to  do,  and  thus  to  add  variety  to 
a  life  which  had  become  tame  with  routine  ?  I  do  not  know, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  this  were  the  case. 

At  the  close  of  the  meal,  I  told  her  of  the  impression  I  had 
received  from  Jenks's  appearance,  and  begged  her  to  go  to  his 
room  with  me,  but  she  declined.  There  was  one  presence  into 
which  this  brave  woman  did  not  wish  to  pass — the  presence 
of  death.  Like  many  another  strongly  vitalized  nature  hers 
revolted  at  dissolution.  She  could  rise  to  the  opposition  of 
anything  that  she  could  meet  and  master,  but  the  dread 
power  which  she  knew  would  in  a  few  short  years,  at  most, 
unlock  the  clasp  by  which  she  held  to  life  and  her  possessions 
filled  her  with  horror.  She  would  do  anything  for  her  old 
servant  at  a  distance,  but  she  could  not,  and  would  not,  wit 
ness  the  process  through  which  she  knew  her  own  frame  and 
spirit  must  pass  in  the  transition  to  her  final  rest. 

That  night  I  spent  mainly  with  Jenks,  while  Mrs.  Belden 
attended  Henry.  This  was  according  to  her  own  wish ;  and 
Mrs.  Sanderson  was  sent  to  bed  at  her  usual  hour.  Whenever 
I  was  wanted  for  anything  in  Heury's  room,  Mrs.  Leiden 
called  me  ;  and,  as  Jenks  needed  frequent  attention,  I  got  very 
little  sleep  during  the  night. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  was  alarmed  by  my  haggard  looks  in  the 
morning,  and  immediately  sent  for  a  professional  nurse  to  at- 


284  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

tend  her  servant,  and  declared  that  my  watching  must  be 
stopped. 

Tired  with  staying  in-doors,  and  wishing  for  a  while  to  sepa 
rate  myself  from  the  scenes  that  had  so  absorbed  me,  and  the 
events  that  had  broken  so  violently  in  upon  my  life,  I  took  a 
long  stroll  in  the  fields  and  woods.  Sitting  down  at  length  in  the 
shade,  with  birds  singing  above  my  head  and  insects  humming 
around  me,  I  passed  these  events  rapidly  in  review,  and  there 
came  to  me  the  conviction  that  Providence  had  begun  to  deal 
with  me  in  earnest.  Since  the  day  of  my  entrance  upon  my  new 
life  at  The  Mansion,  I  had  met  with  no  trials  that  I  had  not 
consciously  brought  upon  myself.  Hardship  I  had  not  known. 
Sickness  and  death  I  had  not  seen.  In  the  deep  sorrows  of  the 
world,  in  its  struggles  and  pains  and  self-denials,  I  had  had  no  part. 
Now,  change  had  come,  and  further  change  seemed  imminent. 
How  should  I  meet  it?  What  would  be  its  effect  upon  me ? 
For  the  present  my  selfish  plans  and  pleasures  must  be  laid 
aside,  and  my  life  be  devoted  to  others.  The  strong  hand  of 
necessity  was  upon  me,  and  there  sprang  up  within  me,  respon 
sive  to  its  touch,  a  manly  determination  to  do  my  whole  duty. 

Then  the  strange  scene  I  had  witnessed  in  Henry's  room  came 
back  to  me.  What  relations  could  ex'st  between  this  pair,  so 
widely  separated  by  age,  that  warranted  the  intimacy  I  had 
witnessed  ?  Was  this  woman  who  had  seemed  to  me  so  nearly 
perfect  a  base  woman  ?  Had  she  woven  her  toils  about  Henry  ? 
Was  he  a  hypocrite  ?  Every  event  of  a  suspicious  nature 
which  had  occurred  was  passed  rapidly  in  review.  I  remem 
bered  his  presence  at  the  wharf  when  she  first  debarked  in  the 
city,  his  strange  appearance  when  he  met  her  at  the  Brad- 
fords  for  the  first  time,  the  letter  I  had  carried  to  him  written 
by  her  hand,  the  terrible  effect  upon  her  of  the  news  of  his 
struggle  and  injury,  and  many  other  incidents  which  I  have  not 
recorded.  There  was  some  sympathy  between  them  which  I 
did  not  understand,  and  which  filled  me  with  a  strange  misgiv 
ing,  both  on  account  of  my  sister  and  myself;  yet  I  knew  that 
she  and  Claire  were  the  closest  friends,  and  I  had  never  re- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  285 

ceived  from  her  anything  but  the  friendliest  treatment.  Since 
she  had  returned,  she  had  clung  to  his  room  and  his  side  as  if 
he  were  her  special  charge,  by  duty  and  by  right.  One  thing 
I  was  sure  of :  she  would  never  have  treated  me  in  the  way 
she  had  treated  him. 

Then  there  came  to  me,  with  a  multitude  of  thoughts  and 
events  connected  with  my  past  history,  Mrs.  Sanderson's  sin 
gular  actions  regarding  the  picture  that  had  formed  with  me 
the  subject  of  so  many  speculations  and  surmises.  Who  was 
the  boy  ?  What  connection  had  he  with  her  life  and  history  ? 
Was  she  tired  of  me  ?  Was  she  repentant  for  some  great  in 
justice  rendered  to  one  she  had  loved?  Was  she  sorrowing 
over  some  buried  hope  ?  Did  I  stand  in  the  way  of  the  reali 
zation  of  some  desire  which,  in  her  rapidly  declining  years, 
had  sprung  to  life  within  her  ? 

I  do  not  know  why  it  was,  but  there  came  to  me  the  con 
sciousness  that  events  were  before  me — ready  to  disclose 
themselves — shut  from  me  by  a  thin  veil — which  would  change 
the  current  of  my  life ;  and  the  purpose  I  had  already  formed 
of  seeking  an  interview  with  Mr.  Bradford  and  asking  him  the 
questions  I  had  long  desired  to  ask,  was  confirmed.  I  would 
do  it  at  once.  I  would  learn  my  aunt's  history,  and  know  the 
ground  on  which  I  stood.  I  would  pierce  the  mysteries  that 
had  puzzled  me  and  were  still  gathering  around  me,  and  front 
whatever  menace  they  might  bear. 


CHAFER  XIX. 

JENKS    GOES    FAR,    FAR   AWAY   UPON   THE    BILLOW   AND    NEVER 
COMES    BACK. 

ON  returning  to  the  house  I  found  myself  delayed  in  the 
execution  of  my  determination  by  the  increasing  and  alarming 
sickness  of  the  old  servant  Jenks,  and  by  his  desire  that  I 
should  be  near  him.  The  physician,  who  was  called  at  once, 
gave  us  no  hope  of  his  recovery.  He  was  breaking  down 
rapidly,  and  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  the  fact. 

On  the  following  morning,  after  I  had  spent  the  most  of  the 
night  in  his  room,  he  requested  the  nurse  to  retire,  and  calling 
me  to  his  bedside  said  he  wished  to  say  a  few  words  to  me.  I 
administered  a  cordial,  which  he  swallowed  with  pain,  and  after 
a  fit  of  difficult  breathing  caused  by  the  effort,  he  said  feebly : 
"It's  no  use,  Mr.  Arthur;  I  can't  hold  on,  and  I  don't  think  I 
want  to.  It's  a  mere  matter  of  staying.  I  should  never  work 
any  more,  even  if  I  should  weather  this." 

I  tried  to  say  some  comforting  words,  but  he  shook  his  head 
feebly,  and  simply  repeated  :  "  It's  no  use." 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Jenks  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Do  you  know  Jim  Taylor's  wife  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I've  seen  her,"  I  replied. 

"She's  a  hard  working  woman." 

"  Yes,  with  a  great  many  children." 

"And  Jim  don't  treat  her  very  well,"  he  muttered. 

"  So  I've  heard." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly,  and  whispered  :  "  It's  too  bad ; 
it's  too  bad." 

"  Don't  worry  yourself  about  Jim  Taylor's  wife  ;  she's  noth 
ing  to  you,"  I  said. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  287 

"Do  you  think  so? — nothing  to  me?  Don't  say  that;  I 
can't  bear  it" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  Jim  Taylor's  wife  is — " 

He  nodded  his  head ;  and  I  saw  that  he  had  not  yet  finished 
what  he  had  to  say  about  her. 

"  Have  you  any  message  for  her  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Mr.  Arthur,  that  she's  been  everything  to 
me,  and  I'd  like  to  do  a  little  something  for  her.  You  don't 
think  she'd  take  it  amiss  if  I  should  leave  her  some  money,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  she's  very  poor,"  I  said.  "  I  think  she  would  be 
very  grateful  for  anything  you  can  do  to  help  her  along." 

His  eye  lighted,  and  a  feeble  smile  spread  over  his  wizen 
features. 

"  Pull  out  that  little  box  under  the  bed,"  he  said.  "  The 
key  is  under  my  pillow." 

I  placed  the  box  on  the  bed,  and,  after  fumbling  under  his 
pillow,  found  the  key  and  opened  the  humble  coffer. 

"There's  a  hundred  clean  silver  dollars  in  that  bag,  that  I've 
been  saving  up  for  her  for  thirty  years.  I  hope  they'll  do  her 
good.  Give  them  to  her,  and  don't  tell  Jim.  Tell  her  Jenks 
never  forgot  her,  and  that  she's  been  everything  to  him.  Tell 
her  I  was  sorry  she  had  trouble,  and  don't  forget  to  say  that  I 
never  blamed  her" 

I  assured  him  that  I  would  give  her  the  money  and  the 
message  faithfully,  and  he  sank  back  into  his  pillow  with  a  satis 
fied  look  upon  his  face  that  I  had  not  seen  there  since  his  sick 
ness.  The  long  contemplated  act  was  finished,  and  the  work 
of  his  life  was  done. 

After  lying  awhile  with  his  eyes  closed,  he  opened  them  and 
said  :  "  Do  you  s'pose  we  shall  know  one  another  over 
yonder?" 

"  I  hope  so  ;  I  think  so,"  I  responded. 

"  If  she  comes  before  Jim,  I  shall  look  after  her.  Do  you 
dare  to  tell  her  that  ?"  and  he  fixed  his  glazing  eyes  upon  me 
with  a  wild,  strained  look  that  thrilled  me. 


288  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  I  think  it  would  scare  her,"  I  answered.  "  Perhaps  you  had 
better  not  send  her  such  a  message." 

"  Well,  I  shall  look  after  her,  any  way,  if  I  get  a  chance,  and 
perhaps  both  of  'em  won't  go  to  one  place — and — " 

What  further  possibilities  ran  through  the  old  man's  imagina 
tion  I  do  not  know,  for  he  seemed  exhausted,  and  ceased  to 
speak.  I  sat  for  an  hour  beside  his  bed,  while  he  sank  into  a 
lethargic  slumber.  At  last  he  woke  and  stared  wildly  about 
him.  Then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  me,  he  said  :  "  Now's  my  time  ! 
If  I'm  ever  going  to  get  away  from  this  place  I  must  go  to 
night  ! " 

There  was  a  pathetic  and  poetic  appositeness  in  these  words 
to  the  facts  of  his  expiring  life  that  touched  me  to  tears,  and  I 
wiped  my  eyes.  Then  listening  to  some  strange  singing  in  his 
ears,  he  said:  "Doesn't  it  rain  ?  Doesn't  it  pour?  You'll 
take  cold,  my  boy,  and  so  shall  I." 

The  thought  carried  him  back  over  the  years  to  the  scene  in 
the  stable  where  in  agony  I  knelt,  with  the  elements  in  tumult 
above  me  and  his  arm  around  my  neck,  and  prayed. 

"  Pray  again,  Arthur.     I  want  to  hear  you  pray." 

I  could  not  refuse  him,  but  knelt  at  once  by  his  bed,  and 
buried  my  face  in  the  clothes  by  his  side.  He  tried  to  lift  his 
hand,  but  the  power  to  do  so  was  gone.  I  recognized  his  wish, 
and  lifted  his  arm  and  placed  it  round  my  neck.  It  was  several 
minutes  before  I  could  command  my  voice,  and  then,  choking 
as  on  the  evening  which  he  had  recalled,  I  tried  to  commend 
his  departing  spirit  to  the  mercy  and  fatherly  care  of  Him  who 
was  so  soon  to  receive  it.  Having  prayed  for  him  it  was  easiei 
to  pray  for  myself;  and  I  did  pray,  fervently  and  long.  As  I 
closed,  a  whispered  "Amen"  came  from  his  dying  lips. 
"There,"  he  said  ;  "  let's  go  into  the  house  ;  it's  warm  there." 
There  was  something  in  these  words  that  started  my  tears 
again. 

After  this  his  mind  wandered,  and  in  his  delirium  the  old 
passion  of  his  life  took  full  possession  of  him. 

"  To-morro\v  I  shall  be  far,  far  away  on  the  billow 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  289 

The  old  woman  will  call  Jcnks,  but  Jenks  won't  be  here. 
Jenks  will  be  gone  !  .  .  .  .  This  is  the  craft :  up  with  her  sails  : 
doavn  with  the  compasses  :  My  !  how  she  slides  !  Run  her 
straight  for  the  moon  !  .  .  .  .  Doesn't  she  cut  the  water  beau 
tiful  !  .  .  .  .  The  sea  rolls  and  swings,  and  rolls  and  swings, 
and  there  are  the  islands  !  I  see  'em  !  I  see  'em  !  .  .  .  .  It's 

just  like  a  cradle,  and  I  can't  keep  awake Oh,  I'm 

going  to  sleep  !  I'm — going — to — sleep Tell  the  old 

woman  I  bore  her  no  ill  will,  but  I  had  to  go I  was 

obliged  to  go Straight  along  in  the  track  of  the  moon." 

He  said  all  this  brokenly,  with  his  eyes  closed  ;  and  then  he 
opened  them  wide,  and  looked  around  as  if  suddenly  startled 
out  of  sleep.  Then  life  went  out  of  them,  and  there  came  on 
that  quick,  short  breathing,  unmistakable  in  its  character,  even 
to  a  novice,  and  I  rose  and  called  the  nurse  and  Mrs.  Belden 
to  witness  the  closing  scene. 

So,  sailing  out  upon  that  unknown  sea  made  bright  by  a 
hovering  glory,  with  green  islands  in  view  and  the  soft  waves 
lapping  his  little  vessel,  escaping  from  all  his  labors  and  pains, 
and  realizing  all  his  dreams  and  aspirations,  the  old  man  passed 
away.  There  was  a  smile  upon  his  face,  left  by  some  sweet 
emotion.  If  he  was  hailed  by  other  barks  sailing  upon  the 
same  sea,  if  he  touched  at  the  islands  and  plucked  their  golden 
fruit,  if  there  opened  to  his  expanding  vision  broader  waters 
beyond  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  bathing  the  feet  of  the 
Eternal  City,  we  could  not  know.  We  only  knew  that  his  clos 
ing  thought  was  a  blessed  thought,  and  that  it  glorified  the 
features  which,  in  a  few  short  days,  would  turn  to  dust.  It  was 
delightful  to  think  that  the  harmless,  simple,  ignorant,  dear  old 
boy  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  his  Father.  There  I  left  him 
without  a  care — in  the  hands  of  One  whose  justice  only  is  ten 
derer  than  His  mercy,  and  whose  love  only  is  stronger  than  His 
justice. 

The  superintendence  of  all  the  affairs  connected  with  his 
funeral  was  devolved  upon  me  ;  and  his  burial  was  like  the 
burial  of  an  old  playfellow.  I  could  not  have  believed  that 
13 


290  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

his  death  would  grieve  me  so.  It  was  the  destruction  of  a  part 
of  my  home.  Now  nothing  was  left  but  a  single  frail  woman, 
whose  years  were  almost  told  ;  and  when  her  time  should  be 
spent,  the  house  would  be  empty  of  all  but  myself,  and  those 
whom  I  might  choose  to  retain  or  procure. 

His  remains  were  followed  to  the  grave  by  Mrs.  Sanderson 
and  myself  in  the  family  carriage,  and  by  the  Bradfords,  with 
some  humble  acquaintances.  His  relatives  were  all  at  a  dis 
tance,  if  he  had  any  living,  or  they  had  left  the  world  before 
him.  The  house  seemed  more  lonely  after  his  death  than  1 
had  ever  felt  it  to  be  before,  and  poor  Mrs.  Sanderson  was 
quite  broken  down  by  the  event.  The  presence  of  death  in 
the  house  was  so  sad  a  remembrancer  of  previous  occurrences 
of  which  I  had  had  no  knowledge,  and  was  such  a  suggestion 
to  herself  of  the  brevity  of  her  remaining  years,  that  she  was 
wonderfully  softened. 

She  had,  ever  since  her  return,  lived  apparently  in  a  kind  of 
dream.  There  was  something  in  Henry's  presence  and  voice 
that  had  the  power  to  produce  this  tender,  silent  mood,  and 
Jenks's  death  only  deepened  and  intensified  it. 

When  all  was  over,  and  the  house  had  resumed  its  every-day 
aspects  and  employments,  I  took  the  little  sum  that  Jenks  had 
saved  with  such  tender  care,  and  bore  it  to  the  woman  who  had 
so  inspired  his  affection  and  sweetened  his  life.  I  found  her  a 
hard-faced,  weary  old  woman,  whose  life  of  toil  and  trouble  had 
wiped  out  every  grace  and  charm  of  womanhood  that  she  had 
ever  possessed.  She  regarded  my  call  with  evident  curiosity  ; 
and  when  I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  known  Jenks,  and 
whether  anything  had  occurred  between  them  in  their  early 
life  that  would  make  him  remember  her  with  particul  ir  regard, 
she  smiled  a  grim,  hard  smile  and  said  :  "  Not  much." 

"What  was  it?     I  have  good  reasons  for  inquiring." 

"Well,"  said  she,  "he  wanted  me  to  marry  him,  and  I 
wouldn't.  That's  about  all.  You  see  he  was  a  kind  of  an  in 
nocent,  and  1  s'pose  I  made  fun  of  him.  Perhaps  I've  had  my 
pay  for't." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  291 

"  Do  you  know  that  he  has  loved  you  dearly  all  his  life ; 
that  he  has  pricked  your  name  into  his  arm,  and  that  it  was 
the  tenderest  and  sweetest  word  that  ever  passed  his  lips ;  that 
the  thought  of  you  comforted  him  at  his  work  and  mingled 
with  all  his  dreams  ;  that  he  would  have  gone  through  fire  and 
water  to  serve  you  ;  that  he  saved  up  money  all  his  life  to  give 
you,  and  that  he  hopes  you  will  die  before  your  husband,  so 
that  he  may  have  the  chance  to  care  for  you  in  the  other  coun 
try  to  which  he  has  gone  ?  " 

As  I  uttered  these  words  slowly,  and  with  much  emotion, 
her  dull  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider,  and  filled  with  tears 
which  dropped  unregarded  from  her  cheeks.  I  suppose  these 
were  the  first  words  of  affection  that  had  been  spoken  to  her 
for  twenty  years.  Her  heart  had  been  utterly  starved,  and  my 
words  were  like  manna  to  her  taste.  She  could  not  speak  at 
first,  and  then  with  much  difficulty  she  said:  "Are  you  tell 
ing  me  the  truth  ?" 

"  I  am  not  telling  you  half  of  the  truth.  He  loved  you  a 
thousand  times  more  devotedly  than  I  can  tell  you.  He  would 
have  worshiped  a  ribbon  that  you  had  worn.  He  would  have 
kissed  the  ground  on  which  you  stepped.  He  would  have 
been  your  slave.  He  would  have  done  anything,  or  been  any 
thing,  that  would  have  given  you  pleasure,  even  though  he  had 
never  won  a  smile  in  return." 

Then  I  untied  the  handkerchief  in  which  I  had  brought  the 
old  man's  savings,  and  poured  the  heavy  silver  into  her  lap. 
She  did  not  look  at  it.  She  only  looked  into  my  face  with  a 
sad  gaze,  while  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  anew. 

"I  don't  deserve  it :  I  don't  deserve  it,"  she  repeated  in  a 
hopeless  way,  "  but  I  thank  you.  I've  got  something  to  think 
of  besides  kicks  and  cuffs  and  curses.  No — they  won't  hurt 
me  any  more." 

Her  eyes  brightened  then  so  that  she  looked  almost  beauti 
ful  to  me.  The  assurance  that  one  man,  even  though  she  h^.l 
regarded  him  as  a  simpleton,  had  persistently  loved  her,  had 
passed  into  her  soul,  so  that  she  was  strengthened  for  a  life- 


292  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

time.  The  little  hoard  and  the  love  that  came  with  it  were  a 
mighty  re-enforcement  against  all  the  trials  which  a  brutal  hus 
band  and  forgetful  children  had  brought  upon  her. 

I  left  her  sitting  with  her  treasure  still  in  her  lap,  dreaming 
over  the  old  days,  looking  forward  to  those  that  remained,  and 
thinking  of  the  man  who  would  have  asked  for  no  sweeter 
heaven  than  to  look  in  and  see  her  thus  employed.  Afterwards 
I  saw  her  often.  She  attended  the  church  which  she  had  long 
forsaken,  with  clothes  so  neat  and  comfortable  that  her  neigh 
bors  wondered  where  and  how  she  had  managed  to  procure 
them,  and  took  up  the  burden  of  her  life  again  with  courage  and 
patience. 

She  went  before  Jim. 

Whom  she  found  waiting  on  the  other  side  of  that  moonlit 
sea  over  which  my  old  friend  had  sailed  homeward,  I  shall 
know  some  time ;  but  I  cannot  turn  my  eyes  from  a 
picture  which  my  fancy  sketches,  of  a  sweet  old  man,  grown 
wise  and  strong,  standing  upon  a  sunny  beach,  with  arms  out 
stretched,  to  greet  an  in-going  shallop  that  bears  still  the  name 
of  all  the  vessels  he  had  ever  owned — "  the  Jane  Whittlesey  1 " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MR.     BRADFORD     TELLS     ME     A    STORY    WHICH    CHANGES    THE 
DETERMINATIONS    OF   MY   LIFE. 

I  HAVE  already  alluded  to  the  effect  which  Henry's  presence 
produced  upon  Mrs.  Sanderson.  For  a  few  days  after  her  re 
turn,  I  watched  with  covert  but  most  intense  interest  the  devel 
opment  of  her  acquaintance  with  him.  Mrs.  Belden  had  been 
for  so  long  a  time  her  companion,  and  was  so  constantly  at 
Henry's  bedside,  that  my  aunt  quickly  took  on  the  habit  of  go 
ing  in  to  sit  for  an  hour  with  the  lady  and  her  charge.  I  was 
frequently  in  and  out,  doing  what  I  could  for  my  friend's  amuse 
ment,  and  often  found  both  the  ladies  in  attendance.  Mrs. 
Sanderson  always  sat  at  the  window  in  an  old-fashioned  rock 
ing  chair,  listening  to  the  conversation  between  Mrs.  Belden  and 
Henry.  Whenever  Henry  laughed,  or  uttered  an  exclamation, 
she  started  and  looked  over  to  his  bed,  as  if  the  sounds  were 
familiar,  or  as  if  they  had  a  strange  power  of  suggestion. 
There  was  some  charm  in  his  voice  and  look  to  which  she  sub 
mitted  herself  more  and  more  as  the  days  went  by — a  charm  so 
subtle  that  I  doubt  whether  she  understood  it  or  was  conscious 
of  its  power. 

Two  or  three  days  passed  after  I  had  executed  Jcnks's  will, 
with  relation  to  his  savings,  when  my  old  resolution  to  visit  Mr. 
Bradford  recurred.  In  the  meantime,  I  felt  that  I  had  won 
strength  from  my  troubles  and  cares,  and  was  better  able  to 
bear  trial  than  I  had  ever  been  before.  I  was  little  needed  in 
the  house,  now  that  Jenks  was  gone,  so,  one  morning  after 
breakfast,  I  started  to  execute  my  purpose.  As  I  was  taking 
my  hat  in  the  hall,  there  came  a  rap  upon  the  door,  and  as  I 
stood  near  it  I  opened  it  and  encountered  Millie  Bradford. 


294  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

She  met  me  with  a  cordiality  that  spoke  her  friendship,  but  with 
a  reserve  which  declared  that  the  old  relations  between  us  had 
ceased.  I  know  that  I  blushed  painfully,  for  she  had  been 
much  in  my  thoughts,  and  it  seemed,  somehow,  that  she^must 
have  been  conscious  of  the  fact.  I  knew,  too,  that  I  had  disap 
pointed  and  shamed  her. 

"  My  father  is  busy  this  morning,  Mr.  Bonnicastle,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  have  been  sent  up  to  inquire  after  the  invalid." 

Ah,  how  her  "  Mr.  Bonnicastle "  removed  me  from  her ! 
And  how  much  more  lovely  she  seemed  to  me  than  she  had 
ever  seemed  before  !  Dressed  in  a  snowy  morning  wrapper, 
with  a  red  rose  at  her  throat,  and  only  a  parasol  to  shade  her  black 
hair  and  her  luminously  tender  eyes,  and  with  all  the  shapely 
beauty  in  her  figure  that  the  ministry  of  seventeen  gracious 
years  could  bestow,  she  seemed  to  me  almost  a  goddess.  . 

I  invited  her  in,  and  called  my  aunt.  Mrs.  Belden  heard 
her  voice  soon  afterwards  and  came  down,  and  we  had  a  pleasant 
chat.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Belden  appeared,  I  noticed  that  Millie 
addressed  all  her  inquiries  concerning  Henry  to  her,  and  that 
there  seemed  to  be  a  very  friendly  intimacy  between  them. 

When,  at  last,  the  girl  rose  to  go,  I  passed  into  the  hall  with 
her,  and  taking  my  hat,  said  :  "  Miss  Bradford,  I  was  about  to 
go  to  your  house  for  a  business  call  upon  your  father,  when  you 
came  in.  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  walking  home  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  certainly,"  she  replied,  though  with  a  shadow  of  reluct 
ance  in  her  look,  "  but  I  fear  your  walk  will  be  fruitless.  My 
father  has  gentlemen  with  him,  and  perhaps  will  not  be  at 
liberty  to  see  you." 

"Still,  with  your  leave  I  will  go.  I  shall  win  a  walk  at 
least,"  I  responded. 

The  moment  I  was  alone  with  her,  I  found  myself  laboring 
under  an  embarrassment  that  silenced  me.  It  was  easy  to  talk 
in  the  presence  of  others,  but  it  was  "Arthur"  and  "Millie" 
no  more  between  us. 

She  noticed  my  silence,  and  uttered  some  common-place 
remark  about  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  in  the  city. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  295 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  see  they  have  the  cathedral  finished  yonder." 

"Entirely,"  she  responded,  "and  the  little  chapel  inside  has 
been  torn  down." 

How  much  she  meant  by  this,  or  whether  she  intended  any 
allusion  to  the  old  conversation,  every  word  of  which  I  recol 
lected  so  vividly,  1  could  not  tell,  but  I  gave  her  the  credit  of 
possessing  as  good  a  memory  as  myself,  and  so  concluded  that 
she  considered  Arthur  Bonnicastle,  the  boy,  as  a  person  dead 
and  gone,  and  Mr.  Bonnicastle  the  young  man  as  one  whom 
she  did  not  know. 

As  we  came  in  sight  of  her  house,  we  saw  three  gentlemen  at 
the  door.  Two  of  them  soon  left,  and  the  third,  who  was  Mr. 
Bradford,  went  back  into  the  house. 

"  I  believe  those  two  men  are  my  father  and  Mr.  Bird,"  I 
said.  "  I  don't  think  I  can  be  mistaken." 

"  You  are  not  mistaken,"  she  responded,  looking  flushed  and 
troubled. 

"  What  can  they  want  of  your  father  at  this  time  of  the 
morning?"  J  said. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  quickened  her  steps,  as  if  she  wished 
to  shorten  the  interview.  Whatever  their  business  was,  I  felt 
sure  that  she  understood  its  nature,  and  almost  equally  sure 
that  it  related  to  myself.  I  knew  that  the  three  had  met  at 
New  Haven  ;  and  I  had  no  doubt  that  they  had  the  same 
business  on  hand  now  that  they  had  then.  I  determined  to 
learn  it  before  I  left  the  house. 

As  we  approached  the  gate,  she  suddenly  turned  to  me  in 
her  impulsive  way,  and  said  : 

"Arthur  Bonnicastle,  are  you  strong  this  morning?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,   "  I  can  meet  anything." 

"  I  am  glad  ;  I  believe  you." 

That  was  all.  As  we  mounted  the  steps  we  found  Mr. 
Bradford  sitting  before  the  open  door,  reading,  or  pretending  to 
read,  a  newspaper. 

"Here's  Mr.  Bonnicastle,  father,"  Millie  said,  and  passed 
through  the  hall  and  out  of  sight. 


296  ArtJiiir  Bonnicastle. 

Mr.  Bradford  rose  and  gave  me  his  hand.  My  coming  had 
evidently  agitated  him,  though  he  endeavored  to  bear  himself 
calmly. 

"  I  wish  to  ask  you  some  questions,  and  to  talk  with  you," 
I  said. 

"  Let  us  go  where  we  can  be  alone,"  he  responded,  leading 
the  way  into  a  little  library  or  office  which  I  had  never  seen 
before.  Throwing  open  the  shutters,  and  seating  himself  by  the 
window,  at  the  same  time  pointing  me  to  a  chair  opposite  to 
him,  he  said:  "Now  for  the  questions." 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  person  is  represented  by  the 
picture  of  a  boy  in  Mrs.  Sanderson's  dining-room." 

"  Her  own  son,  and  her  only  child,"  he  replied. 

"  Is  he  living  or  dead  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  his  history  ?  "  I  said. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  out  of  the  window,  and 
then  replied  slowly  :  "Yes,  I  will.  It  is  time  you  should  know 
it,  and  everything  connected  with  it.  Have  you  leisure  to 
hear  it  now  ?  " 

"  Yes.     That  is  my  business  here  this  morning." 

"  Then  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning,"  he  replied.  "  I  sup 
pose  you  may  have  learned  before  this  time  that  Mrs.  Sander 
son  was  a  Bonnicastle." 

"  I  know  it,"  I  said. 

"  You  have  learned,  too,  that  she  is  a  willful  woman.  In 
her  youth,  at  least,  she  was  unreasonably  so.  She  was  an  heir 
ess,  and,  in  her  young  days,  was  pretty.  For  fifty  miles  around 
she  was  regarded  as  the  finest  "catch  "  within  the  reach  of  any 
ambitious  young  man.  Her  suitors  were  numerous,  and 
among  them  was  the  one  to  whom,  against  the  wishes  of  her 
parents,  she  at  last  gave  her  hand.  He  was  handsome,  bright, 
gallant,  bold  and  vicious.  It  was  enough  for  her  that  her 
parents  opposed  his  attentions  and  designs  to  secure  for  him 
her  sympathy.  It  was  enough  for  her  that  careful  friends 
warned  her  against  him.  She  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  them  all, 


ArtJmr  Bonnicastle.  297 

and  became  fixed  in  her  choice  by  the  opposition  she  encoun 
tered.  To  the  sorrow  of  those  who  loved  her  and  wished  her 
well,  she  was  married  to  him.  Her  parents,  living  where  she 
lives  now,  did  the  best  they  could  to  secure  her  happiness,  and 
opened  their  home  to  their  new  son-in-law,  but  witnessing  his 
careless  treatment  of  their  daughter,  and  his  dissipations,  died 
soon  afterwards,  of  disappointed  hopes  and  ruined  peace. 

"  The  death  of  her  parents  removed  all  the  restraint  which 
had  thitherto  influenced  him,  and  he  plunged  into  a  course  of 
dissipation  and  debauchery  which  made  the  life  of  his  wife  an 
unceasing  torment  and  sorrow.  He  gambled,  he  kept  the 
grossest  companions  around  him,  he  committed  a  thousand 
excesses,  and  as  he  had  to  do  with  a  will  as  strong  as  his  own, 
the  domestic  life  of  The  Mansion  was  notoriously  inharmonious. 

"  After  a  few  years,  a  child  was  born.  The  baby  was  a  boy, 
and  over  this  event  the  father  indulged  in  a  debauch  from 
which  he  never  recovered.  Paralysis  and  a  softened  brain  re 
duced  him  in  a  few  months  to  essential  idiocy,  and  when  he  died 
the  whole  town  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  Self-sufficient  in  her  nature, 
your  aunt  was  self-contained  in  her  mortification  and  sorrow. 
No  one  ever  heard  a  complaint  from  her  lips,  and  no  one  ever 
dared  to  mention  the  name  of  her  husband  to  her  in  any  terms 
but  those  of  respect.  His  debts  were  paid,  and  as  his  time 
of  indulgence  had  been  comparatively  short,  her  large  fortune 
was  not  seriously  impaired. 

"  Then  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  training  of  her  boy.  I 
think  she  saw  in  him  something  of  the  nature  of  his  father,  and 
set  herself  to  the  task  of  curbing  and  killing  it.  No  boy  in 
Bradford  ever  had  so  rigid  a  training  as  Henry  Sanderson. 
She  did  not  permit  him  to  leave  her  sight.  All  his  early  edu 
cation  was  received  at  her  hands.  Every  wish,  every  impulse, 
even  every  aspiration  of  the  child,  was  subjected  to  the  iron 
rule  of  her  will.  No  slave  that  ever  lived  was  more  absorbed, 
directed  and  controlled  by  his  master  than  this  unfortunate 
child  was  by  his  mother.  Not  one  taste  of  liberty  did  lie  ever 
know,  until  she  was  compelled  to  send  him  away  from  her  to 
13* 


298  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

complete  his  education.  The  portrait  of  him  which  has 
excited  your  curiosity  for  so  many  years  was  painted  when  he 
was  less  than  twelve  years  old,  though  he  was  not  permitted  to 
leave  his  home  until  some  years  later. 

"  I  was  young  at  that  time  myself,  though  I  was  older  than 
Henry — young  enough,  at  least,  to  sympathize  with  him,  and  to 
wish,  with  other  boys,  that  we  could  get  him  away  from  her 
and  give  him  one  taste  of  social  freedom  and  fellowship. 
When  she  rode  he  was  with  her,  looking  wistfully  and  smilingly 
out  upon  the  boys  wherever  he  saw  them  playing,  and  when 
she  walked  she  held  his  hand  until  he  was  quite  as  large  as  her 
self.  Every  act  of  his  life  was  regulated  by  a  rule  which  con 
sulted  neither  his  wish  nor  his  reason.  He  had  absolutely  no 
training  of  his  own  will — no  development  within  his  own  heart 
of  the  principles  of  right  conduct,  no  exercise  of  liberty  under 
those  wise  counsels  and  restraints  which  would  lead  him  safely 
up  to  the  liberty  of  manhood.  He  was  simply  her  creature, 
her  tool,  her  puppet,  slavishly  obedient  to  her  every  wish  and 
word.  He  was  treated  as  if  he  were  a  wild  animal,  whom  she 
wished  to  tame — an  animal  without  affection,  without  reason, 
without  any  rights  except  those  which  she  might  give  him.  She 
was  determined  that  he  should  not  be  like  his  father. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  loved  this  child  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  strong  nature,  for  she  sacrificed  society  and  a 
thousand  pleasures  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  her  plans 
concerning  him.  She  would  not  leave  him  at  home  with  ser 
vants  any  more  than  she  would  give  him  the  liberty  of  inter 
course  with  other  children,  and  thus  she  shut  herself  away  from 
the  world,  and  lived  wholly  with  and  for  him. 

"He  was  fitted  for  college  in  her  own  house,  by  the  tuition 
of  a  learned  clergyman  of  the  town,  who  was  glad  to  eke  out 
a  scanty  professional  maintenance  by  attending  her  son,  though 
she  was  present  at  every  recitation,  and  never  left  him  for  a 
moment  in  the  tutor's  company. 

"  When  the  work  of  preparation  was  completed,  she  went 
through  the  terrible  struggle  of  parting  with  her  charge,  and 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  299 

sending  him  away  from  her  for  the  first  time.  He  went  from  her 
as  dependent  and  self-distrustful  as  a  child  of  three — a  trembling, 
bashful,  wretched  boy,  and  came  back  in  less  than  a  year  just 
what  any  wise  man  would  have  anticipated — a  rough,  roystering, 
ungovernable  fellow,  who  laughed  at  his  mother,  turned  her  or 
derly  home  into  a  pandemonium,  flouted  her  authority,  and  made 
her  glad  before  his  vacation  ended  to  send  him  back  again,  out 
of  her  sight.  Untrained  in  self-control  and  the  use  of  liberty,  he 
went  into  all  excesses,  and  became  the  one  notorious  rowdy  of 
the  college.  He  was  rusticated  more  than  once,  and  would  have 
been  expelled  but  for  the  strong  influence  which  his  mother 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  government  of  the  college. 

"  After  his  graduation,  he  was  for  a  time  at  home ;  but  Bradford 
was  too  small  to  cover  up  his  debaucheries  and  immoralities. 
He  had  all  the  beauty  and  boldness  of  his  father,  and  inherited 
his  dominant  animal  nature.  After  a  long  quarrel  with  his 
mother,  he  made  an  arrangement  with  her  by  which  he  was  al 
lowed  a  generous  annuity,  and  with  this  he  went  away,  drifting 
at  last  to  New  Orleans.  There  he  found  college  classmates 
who  knew  of  kis  mother's  wealth,  and  as  he  had  money  enovgh 
to  dress  like  a  gentleman,  he  was  admitted  at  once  into  society, 
and  came  to  be  regarded  as  a  desirable  match  for  any  one  of 
the  many  young  women  he  met.  He  lived  a  life  of  gayety, 
gambled  with  the  fast  men  into  whose  society  he  was  thrown,  and 
at  last  incurred  debts  which,  in  desperation,  he  begged  his  mother 
to  pay,  promising  in  return  immediate  and  thorough  reform. 
After  a  long  delay  his  request  was  granted  ;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  honestly  undertook  the  reform  he  had  promised, 
for  at  this  time  he  became  acquainted  with  a  woman  whose  in 
fluence  over  him  was  purifying  and  ennobling,  and  well  calcu- 
ted  to  inspire  and  fortify  all  his  good  resolutions.  She  was  not 
rich,  but  she  belonged  to  a  good  family,  and  was  well  educated. 

"  Of  course  he  showed  her  only  his  amiable  side  ;  and  the 
ardent  love  she  inspired  in  him  won  her  heart,  and  she  married 
him.  At  this  time  he  was  but  twenty-live  years  old.  His  mother 
had  been  looking  forward  wearily  to  the  hour  when  he  would 


300  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

see  the  folly  of  his  course,  would  complete  the  sowing  of  his 
wild  oats,  and  be  glad  to  return  to  his  home.  She  had  her  own 
ambitious  projects  concerning  a  matrimonial  alliance  for  him  ; 
and  when  he  married  without  consulting  her,  and  married  one 
who  was  poor,  her  anger  was  without  bounds.  Impulsively  she 
sat  down  and  wrote  him  the  cruelest  letter  that  it  was  in  her 
power  to  write,  telling  him  that  the  allowance  which  she  had 
hitherto  sent  him  would  be  sent  to  him  no  longer,  and  that  her 
property  would  be  left  to  others. 

"  The  blow  was  one  from  which  he  never  recovered.  He 
was  prostrated  at  once  upon  a  bed  of  sickness,  which,  acting 
upon  a  system  that  had  been  grossly  abused,  at  last  carried 
him  to  his  grave.  Once  during  this  sickness  his  wife  wrote 
to  his  mother  a  note  of  entreaty,  so  full  of  tender  love  for  her 
sick  and  dying  husband,  and  so  appealing  in  its  Christian 
womanliness,  that  it  might  well  have  moved  a  heart  of  stone ; 
but  it  found  no  entrance  at  a  door  which  disappointed  pride 
had  closed.  The  note  was  never  answered,  and  was  un 
doubtedly  tossed  into  the  fire,  that  the  receiver  might  never  be 
reminded  of  it.  • 

"  The  son  and  husband  died,  and  was  buried  by  alien  hands, 
and  his  mother  never  saw  his  face  again." 

Here  Mr.  Bradford  paused,  as  if  his  story  was  finished. 

"Is  this  all?"  I  asked. 

"It  is,  in  brief,  the  history  of  the  boy  whose  portrait  you 
have  inquired  about,"  he  replied. 

"  What  became  of  his  widow  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  She  returned  to  her  parents,  and  never  wrote  a  word  to 
Mrs.  Sanderson.  She  had  been  treated  by  her  in  so  cruel  a 
manner  that  she  could  not.  Afterwards  she  married  again,  and 
removed,  I  have  since  learned,  to  one  of  the  Northern  States." 

I  sat  in  silence  for  some  moments,  a  terrible  question  burn 
ing  in  my  throat,  which  I  dared  not  utter.  1  felt  myself  trem 
bling  in  every  nerve.  I  tried  to  thrust  the  question  from  me, 
but  it  would  not  go. 

Then    Mr.   Bradford,  who,   I  doubt  not,  read  my  thoughts, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  301 

and  did  not  feel  ready  to  answer  my  question,  said  :  "  You 
see  how  differently  Mrs.  Sanderson  has  treated  you.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  she  reasoned  the  matter  all  out,  and  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  she  had  acted  unwisely.  I  have  no  doubt, 
though  she  never  acknowledged  it  to  any  one,  that  she  saw  the 
reason  of  the  failure  of  the  plan  of  training  which  she  adopted 
in  the  case  of  her  son,  and  determined  upon  another  one  for 
you." 

"  And  that  has  failed  too,"  I  said  sadly. 

"  Yes :  I  mean  no  reproach  and  no  unkindness  when  I 
frankly  say  that  I  think  it  has.  Both  plans  ignored  certain 
principles  in  human  nature  which  must  be  recognized  in  all 
sound  training.  No  true  man  was  ever  made  either  by  absorb 
ing  and  repressing  his  will,  or  by  removing  from  him  all  stimulus 
to  manly  endeavor." 

"  Do  you  think  my  aunt  cares  much  for  these  things  that 
happened  so  long  ago  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  she  cares  for  them  more  and  more  as 
the  days  go  by,  and  bring  her  nearer  to  her  grave.  She  has 
softened  wonderfully  within  a  few  years,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  they  form  the  one  dark,  ever-present  shadow  upon  her  life. 
As  she  feels  the  days  of  helplessness  coming,  she  clings  more 
to  companions,  and  misses  the  hand  that,  for  sixteen  long  and 
laborious  years,  she  tried  to  teach  obedience,  and  train  into 
helpfulness  against  the  emergency  that  is  almost  upon  her. 
She  mourns  for  her  child.  She  bewails  in  secret  her  mistakes  ; 
and,  while  she  is  true  to  you  to-day,  I  have  no  doubt  that  if 
the  son  of  her  youth  could  come  to  her  in  rags  and  wretched 
ness,  with  all  his  sins  upon  him,  and  with  the  record  of  his 
ingratitude  unwashed  of  its  stains,  she  would  receive  him  with 
open  arms,  and  be  almost  content  to  die  at  once  in  his  em 
brace." 

The  tears  filled  my  eyes,  and  I  said  :  "  Poor  woman  !  I 
wish  he  could  come." 

Mr.  Bradford's  observations  and  conclusions  with  regard  to 
her  coincided  with  my  own.  I  had  noticed  this  change  coming 


302  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

over  her.  I  had  seen  her  repeatedly  standing  before  the  pict 
ure.  I  had  witnessed  her  absorption  in  revery.  Even  from 
the  first  day  of  my  acquaintance  with  her  I  saw  the  change  had 
been  in  progress.  Her  heart  had  been  unfed  so  long  that  it 
had  begun  to  starve.  She  had  clung  more  and  more  to  me  ; 
she  had  lived  more  and  more  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Belden  ; 
and  now  that  Henry  had  become  an  inmate  of  her  house,  she 
evidently  delighted  to  be  in  his  presence.  Her  strong  charac 
teristics  often  betrayed  themselves  in  her  conduct,  but  they 
were  revealed  through  a  tenderer  atmosphere.  I  pitied  her 
profoundly,  and  I  saw  how  impossible  it  was  for  me,  under  any 
circumstances,  to  fill  the  place  in  her  heart  of  one  who  had 
been  nursed  upon  it. 

We  went  on  talking  upon  various  unimportant  matters,  both 
of  us  fighting  away  from  the  question  which  each  of  us  felt  was 
uppermost  in  the  other's  mind.  At  last,  summoning  all  my 
resolution  and  courage,  I  said  :  "Was  there  any  child  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  that  child  living  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  think  so— yes." 

I  knew  that  at  this  reply  to  my  question  the  blood  wholly 
forsook  my  face.  My  head  swarn  wildly,  and  I  reeled  heav 
ily  upon  my  feet,  and  came  close  to  the  window  for  air. 
Mr.  Bradford  sprang  up,  and  drew  my  chair  close  to  where  I 
stood,  and  bade  me  be  seated.  I  felt  like  a  man  drifting  resist- 
lessly  toward  a  precipice.  The  rocks  and  breakers  had  been 
around  me  for  days,  and  I  had  heard  indistinctly  and  afar  the 
roar  of  tumbling  waters  ;  but  now  the  sound  stunned  my  ears, 
and  I  knew  that  my  hurrying  bark  would  soon  shoot  into  the 
air,  and  pitch  with  me  into  the  abyss. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Sanderson  know  of  this  child  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  she  does.  There  has  been  no  one  to  tell 
her.  She  comr/unicates  with  no  one,  and  neither  child  nor 
mother  would  ever  make  an  approach  to  her  in  any  assertion 
of  their  relations  to  her,  even  if  it  were  to  save  them  from 
starving.  But  the  man  undoubtedly  lives  to-day  to  whom  Mrs. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  303 

Sanderson's  wealth  will  belong  by  every  moral  and  natural 
right,  when  she  shall  have  passed  away." 

The  truth  had  come  at  last,  and  although  I  had  anticipated 
it,  it  was  a  plunge  into  warring  waters  that  impelled,  and  held, 
and  whelmed,  and  tossed  me  like  some  poor  weed  they  had 
torn  from  sunny  banks  far  away  and  above.  Would  they  play 
with  me  for  an  hour,  and  then  carry  me  with  other  refuse  out 
to  the  sea,  or  would  they  leave  me  upon  the  shore,  to  take  root 
again  in  humbler  soil  and  less  dangerous  surroundings  ?  I  did 
not  know.  For  the  moment  I  hardly  cared. 

Nothing  was  said  for  a  long  time.  I  looked  with  compressed 
lips  and  dry  eyes  out  of  the  window,  but  I  knew  that  Mr. 
Bradford's  eyes  were  upon  me.  I  could  not  but  conclude 
that  it  was  the  intention  of  my  friends  that  Mrs.  Sanderson 
should  be  informed  that  her  grandson  was  living,  else  Mr.  Brad 
ford  would  not  have  told  me.  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Sanderson 
had  arrived  at  that  point  in  life  when  such  information  would 
come  to  her  like  a  voice  from  heaven.  I  knew  that  the  fortune 
I  had  anticipated  was  gone  ;  that  my  whole  scheme  of  life  was 
a  shattered  dream  ;  that  I  was  to  be  subjected  to  the  task  of 
taking  up  and  bearing  unassisted  the  burden  of  my  destiny ; 
that  everybody  must  know  my  humiliation,  and  that  in  my 
altered  lot  and  social  position  I  could  not  aspire  to  the  hand 
of  the  one  girl  of  all  the  world  whose  love  I  coveted. 

The  whole  dainty  fabric  of  my  life,  which  my  imagination 
had  reared,  was  carried  away  as  with  the  sweep  of  a  whirlwind, 
and  the  fragments  filled  the  air  as  far  as  I  could  see. 

When  reaction  came,  it  was  at  first  weak  and  pitiful.  It 
made  me  angry  and  petulant.  To  think  that  my  own  father 
and  my  old  teacher  should  have  been  plotting  for  months  with 
my  best  friend  to  bring  me  into  this  strait,  and  that  all  should 
not  only  have  consented  to  this  catastrophe,  but  have  sought 
it,  and  laid  their  plans  for  it,  made  me  angry. 

"  Mr.  Bradford,"  1  said,  suddenly  and  fiercely,  rising  to  my 
feet,  "  I  have  been  abused.  You  led  nte  into  a  trap,  and  now 
my  own  father  and  Mr.  Bird  join  with  you  to  spring  it  upon  me. 


304  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

You  have  wheedled  them  into  it ;  you  have  determined  to  ruin 
me,  and  all  my  hopes  and  prospects  for  life,  because  I  do  not 
choose  to  model  my  life  on  your  stingy  little  pattern.  Who 
knows  anything  about  this  fellow  whom  you  propose  to  put  in 
my  place  ?  A  pretty  story  to  be  trumped  up  at  this  late  day, 
and  palmed  off  upon  an  old  woman  made  weak  by  remorse, 
anxious  to  right  herself  before  she  goes  to  her  grave  !  I  will 
fight  this  thing  to  the  death  for  her  and  for  myself.  I  will  not 
be  imposed  upon  ;  nor  will  I  permit  her  to  be  imposed  upon. 
Thank  you  for  nothing.  You  have  treated  me  brutally,  and  I 
take  your  grand  ways  for  just  what  they  are  worth." 

1  whirled  upon  my  feet,  and,  without  bidding  him  good  morn 
ing,  attempted  to  leave*  the  room.  His  hand  was  on  my  shoul 
der  in  an  instant,  and  I  turned  upon  him  savagely,  and  yelled  : 
"Well,  what  more  do  you  want?  Isn't  it  enough  that  you 
ruin  me  ?  Have  you  any  new  torture  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  free  hand  to  my  other  shoulder,  and  looked  me 
calmly  and  with  a  sad  smile  in  the  face. 

"  I  forgive  it  all,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "  even  before  you  repent 
of  it.  The  devil  has  been  speaking  to  me,  and  not  Arthur 
Bonnicastle.  I  expected  just  this,  and  now  that  it  is  come,  let 
us  forget  it.  This  is  not  the  mood  in  which  a  wise  man  en 
counters  the  world,  and  it  is  not  the  mood  of  a  man  at  all,  but 
of  a  child." 

At  this,  I  burst  into  tears,  and  he  drew  me  to  his  breast, 
where  I  wept  with  painful  convulsions.  Then  he  led  me  back 
to  my  seat. 

"  When  you  have  had  time  to  think  it  all  over,"  he  said 
calmly  and  kindly,  "  you  will  find  before  you  the  most  beauti 
ful  opportunity  to  begin  a  true  career  that  man  ever  had.  It 
would  be  cruel  to  deprive  you  of  it.  Your  aunt  will  never 
know  of  this  heir  by  your  father's  lips,  or  Mr.  Bird's,  or  my  own. 
Neither  the  heir  nor  his  mother  will  ever  report  themselves  to 
her.  Everything  is  to  be  done  by  you,  of  your  own  free  will. 
You  have  it  in  your  power  to  make  three  persons  superlatively 
happy,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  make  a  man  of  yourself.  If 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  305 

you  cannot  appropriate  such  an  opportunity  as  this,  then  your 
manhood  is  more  thoroughly  debased,  or  lost,  than  I  sup 
posed." 

I  saw  how  kindly  and  strongly  they  had  prepared  it  all  for 
me,  and  how  all  had  been  adjusted  to  a  practical  appeal  to  my 
manhood,  to  my  sense  of  justice,  and  to  my  gratitude. 

"  I  must  have  time,"  I  said  at  last ;  "  but  where  is  this  man  ?  " 

"  In  his  grandmother's  house,  with  a  broken  leg,  suffered  in 
the  service  of  his  friendship  for  you ;  and  his  mother  is  nursing 
him  ! " 

"  Grandmother's  house  ?  .  .  .  Henry  Hulm  ?  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Belden  ?  " 

I  was  so  stunned  by  the  information  that  I  uttered  the  words 
in  gasps,  with  long  pauses  between. 

"Yes,  the  Providence  that  has  cared  for  you  and  me  has 
brought  them  there,  and  fastened  them  in  the  home  where  they 
belong.  There  has  been  no  conspiracy,  no  intrigue,  no  scheme. 
It  has  all  been  a  happening,  but  a  happening  after  a  plan  that 
your  father  learned  long  before  I  did  to  recognize  as  divine." 

"Do  they  know  where  they  are?" 

I  asked  the  question  blindly,  because  it  seemed  so  strange 
that  they  should  know  anything  about  it. 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  Bradford  said,  "  and  Henry  has  always 
known  his  relations  to  Mrs.  Sanderson,  from  the  first  day  on 
which  you  told  him  of  your  own.  When  you  first  went  to  her, 
I  knew  just  where  both  mother  and  son  were,  and  was  in  com 
munication  with  them  ;  but  I  knew  quite  as  well  then  that  any 
attempt  to  reconcile  Mrs.  Sanderson  to  the  thought  of  adopting 
them  would  have  been  futile.  Things  have  changed  with  her 

o  o 

and  with  you." 

"Why  are  they  here  under  false  names?  Why  have  they 
kept  up  this  deception,  and  carried  on  this  strange  masquer 
ade  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Henry  very  naturally  took  his  step-father's  name,  because 
he  was  but  a  child  at  his  mother's  second  marriage  ;  and  Mrs. 
Belden  Hulm  chose  to  be  known  by  a  part  of  her  name  only, 


306  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

for  the  purpose  of  hiding  her  personality  from  Mrs.  Sanderson, 
whom  she  first  met  entirely  by  accident." 

"  Do  they  know  that  you  have  intended  to  make  this  dis 
closure  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"No,  they  know  nothing  of  it.  It  was  once  proposed  to 
them,  but  they  declared  that  if  such  a  thing  were  done  they 
would  ily  the  city.  Under  Mr.  Bird's  and  your  father's  advice 
1  have  taken  the  matter  into  my  own  hands,  and  now  I  leave 
it  entirely  in  yours.  This  is  the  end  of  my  responsibility,  and 
here  yours  begins." 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  send  a  messenger  to  Mrs. 
Sanderson,  to  tell  her  that  I  shall  be  absent  during  the  day?" 
I  said.  "  I  cannot  go  home  now." 

"  Yes." 

I  shook  his  hand,  and  went  out  into  the  sunlight,  with  a 
crushed,  bruised  feeling,  as  if  I  had  passed  through  a  great  ca 
tastrophe.  My  first  impulse  was  to  go  directly  to  my  father, 
but  the  impulse  was  hardly  born  before  I  said  aloud,  as  if  moved 
by  some  sudden  inspiration  :  "  No  ;  this  thing  shall  be  settled 
between  God  and  myself."  The  utterance  of  the  words  seemed 
to  give  me  new  strength.  I  avoided  the  street  that  led  by  my 
father's  door,  and  walked  directly  through  the  town.  I  met 
sun-browned  men  at  work,  earning  their  daily  bread.  On  every 
side  I  heard  the  din  of  industry.  There  were  shouts  and  calls, 
and  snatches  of  song,  and  rolling  of  wheels,  and  laughter  of 
boys.  There  was  no  sympathy  for  me  there,  and  no  touch  of 
comfort  or  healing. 

Then  I  sought  the  solitude  of  the  woods,  and  the  silence  of 
nature.  Far  away  from  every  sight  and  sound  of  man  I  sat 
down,  but  even  there  went  on  the  ceaseless  industries  of  life. 
The  bees  were  plundering  the  flowers  with  not  a  thought  of 
me  or  of  play.  A  humming  bird  probed  a  honeysuckle  at  my 
side,  and  darted  away  like  a  sunbeam.  A  foraging  squirrel 
picked  up  his  dinner  almost  at  my  feet,  and  ran  up  a  tree, 
where  he  sat  to  eat  it  and  scold  me  for  my  idleness.  A  spring 
of  water,  twinkling  in  the  light,  gushed  from  under  a  rock,  and 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  307 

went  singing  down  the  valley  on  its  mission  of  service.  Back 
and  forth  a  robin  flew,  carrying  food  to  her  young.  The  air  was 
loaded  with  the  breath  of  flowers  and  the  scent  of  balsams, 
beauty  appealed  to  my  eyes  wherever  I  turned  them,  and  the 
summer  breezes  fanned  my  feverish  cheeks.  Industry  and 
ministry — these  were  the  words  of  the  world,  and  God  had 
uttered  them. 

I  looked  up  through  the  trees  into  the  deep  blue  Heaven, 
and  thought  of  the  Being  of  whom  that  sky  was  but  an  emana 
tion,  with  its  life-giving  sun  and  its  wilderness  of  unseen  stars 
wheeling  in  infinite  cycles  of  silence,  and  there  came  unbidden 
to  my  lips  those  words — a  thousand  times  divine — "  My  father 
worketh  hitherto,  and  I  work."  I  realized  that  to  live  outside 
of  work  was  to  live  outside  of  the  universal  plan,  that  there 
could  be  no  true  godliness  without  work,  and  that  manliness 
was  simply  godliness  made  human. 

I  thought  I  knew  from  the  first  what  I  should  do  in  the  end ; 
but  I  felt  the  necessity  of  being  led  to  my  act  by  deliberation. 
I  need  not  tell  how  many  aspirations  went  up  from  my  heart 
that  day.  I  threw  my  soul  wide  open  to  every  heavenly  influ 
ence,  and  returned  at  night  strong. 

On  the  way,  I  thought  over  all  that  had  occurred  in  my  inter 
course  with  Henry,  and  wondered  why  I  had  not  apprehended 
the  facts  which  now  seemed  so  plain  to  me.  I  thought  of  his 
reticence,  his  reluctance  to  enter  the  door  of  his  friend  and 
companion,  his  likeness  to  his  father's  portrait,  his  intimacy 
with  Mrs.  Belden,  of  a  thousand  incidents  that  pointed  to  this 
one  conclusion,  and  could  never  have  led  to  anything  else.  It 
is  more  than  likely  that  the  reader  of  this  history  anticipated 
all  that  I  have  recorded,  but  to  me  it  was  a  staggering  surprise 
that  would  have  been  incredible,  save  for  the  conspiring  testi 
mony  of  every  event  and  fact  in  our  intercourse  and  history. 

I  entered  the  house  with  a  new  glow  upon  my  face,  and  a 
new  light  in  my  eyes.  Mrs.  Sanderson  noticed  my  altered  look, 
and  said  she  was  glad  I  had  spent  the  day  away. 

In  the    evening,  I  went  out  upon   the  broad  acres  that  lay 


308  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

about  me,  looked  up  at  the  grand  old  house  and  the  splendid 
elms  that  stood  around,  and  said  :  "  I  can  do  it,  and  I  will." 

Then  I  went  to  bed,  and  with  that  sweet  and  strong  deter 
mination  locked  in  my  breast,  I  slept,  brooded  over  and  wrapt 
around  by  a  peace  that  held  every  nerve  and  muscle  of  my 
body  and  every  faculty  of  my  soul  in  downy  bonds  until  morn 
ing. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

I    MEET   AN   OLD    FRIEND   WHO    BECOMES    MY    RIVAL. 

WHEN  I  woke,  on  the  following  morning,  it  was  with  a  start 
and  a  pang.  It  was  like  the  shrinking  shiver  one  feels  in  pass 
ing  from  a  room  full  of  warmth  and  the  perfume  of  flowers  and 
the  appliances  of  comfort  into  one  that  is  bare  and  chill ;  or, 
it  was  like  rising  from  a  bed,  sweet  with  invitations  to  dreams 
and  languid  luxury,  to  an  icy  bath  and  a  frosty  toilet.  The 
pang,  however,  did  not  last  long.  With  the  consciousness  that 
I  was  relinquishing  the  hopes  and  plans  of  a  life,  there  was 
mingled  a  sense  of  power  over  other  lives  that  Avas  very  stimu 
lating  and  pleasant.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  crown 
my  benefactress  with  the  highest  earthly  blessing  she  could 
wish  for.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  make  my  faithful 
friend  and  fellow  rich,  and  to  restore  to  him  his  rights.  It  was 
a  great  thing  to  have  the  power  to  solve  the  problems  of  three 
lives  by  making  them  one. 

Mr.  Bradford  and  his  advisers  were  exceedingly  wise  in  leav 
ing  everything  to  me,  and  placing  all  the  responsibility  upon 
me.  The  appeal  to  my  sense  of  justice — to  my  manliness — 
was  simply  irresistible.  If  Henry  had  been  other  than  what  he 
was — if  he  had  been  a  young  man  inheriting  the  nature  of  his 
father — I  should  doubtless  have  had  difficulty  enough  with  him, 
but  they  would  have  stood  by  me.  He  would  have  made  my 
place  hot  with  hate  and  persecution,  and  they  would  have  sup 
ported  me  and  turned  against  him  ;  but  they  knew  that  he  was 
not  only  the  natural  heir  to  all  that  had  been  promised  to  me, 
but  that  he  would  use  it  all  worthily,  in  carrying  out  the  pur 
poses  of  a  manhood  worthily  won. 

It  was  strange  how  my  purposes  with  regard  to  the  inmates 


310  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

of  The  Mansion  glorified  them  all  in  my  sight.  Mrs.  Sanderson 
shone  like  a  saint  in  the  breakfast-room  that  morning.  Mrs. 
Belden  was  as  fresh  and  beautiful  as  a  maiden.  I  sat  with 
Henry  for  an  hour,  and  talked,  not  lightly,  but  cheerfully. 
The  greatness  of  my  sacrifice,  prospective  though  it  was,  had 
already  enlarged  me,  and  I  loved  my  friend  as  I  had  never 
loved  him  before.  My  heart  reached  forward  into  the  future, 
and  took  hold  of  the  new  relations  which  my  sacrifice  would 
establish  between  us  ;  and  I  drank  of  his  new  love,  even  before 
it  had  welled  from  his  heart. 

Thus  all  that  morning  I  bore  about  my  secret ;  and,  so  long 
as  I  remained  in  the  presence  of  those  whom  I  had  the  power 
and  the  purpose  to  make  happy,  I  was  content  and  strong  ;  but 
when,  at  length,  I  went  out  into  the  street,  and  met  the  courteous 
bows  and  warm  greetings  that  came  to  me  from  every  side  as 
the  heir  of  Mrs.  Sanderson,  and  appreciated  the  difference  be 
tween  that  position  and  the  one  to  which  I  should  fall  as  soon 
as  my  duty  should  be  done  to  my  benefactress  and  my  friend, 
I  groaned  with  pain,  and,  lifting  my  eyes,  exclaimed  :  "  God 
help  me  !  God  help  me  ! " 

Without  a  very  definite  purpose  in  my  walk,  I  bent  my  steps 
toward  my  father's  house,  and  on  my  way  was  obliged  to  pass 
the  house  of  Mr.  Bradford.  The  moment  I  came  in  sight  of 
it,  I  recogni/.ed  the  figure  of  Millie  at  work  among  her  flowers 
in  the  garden.  I  saw  a  quick  motion  of  her  head,  as  she 
caught  the  sound  of  my  steps  approaching  upon  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  and  then  she  rose  without  looking  at  me  and 
walked  into  the  house.  I  had  already  begun  to  cross  the  street 
toward  her  ;  but  I  returned  and  passed  the  house  with  many 
bitter  thoughts. 

It  had  come  to  this  !  As  the  heir  of  a  large  property,  I  was 
one  whose  acquaintance  was  worth  the  keeping.  As  a  penni 
less  young  man,  with  his  fortune  to  make,  1  was  quite  another 
person.  I  wondered  if  Millie  Bradford,  the  young  woman,  flat 
tered  herself  with  the  supposition  that  Millie  Bradford,  the  lit 
tle  girl,  was  still  in  existence ! 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  3 1 1 

The  helpless  position  in  which  I  found  myself  with  relation 
to  this  girl  worried  me  and  discouraged  me.  Loyal  to  her 
father  in  every  thought  and  affection,  I  knew  she  would  not 
and  could  not  approve  my  course,  unless  1  followed  out  his 
conviction  concerning  my  duty.  Yet,  if  I  should  do  this,  what 
had  I  to  offer  her  but  poverty  and  a  social  position  beneath 
her  own  ?  I  could  never  make  her  my  wife  without  her  father's 
approval,  and  when  I  had  secured  that,  by  the  sacrifice  of  all 
my  expectations,  what  had  I  left  to  offer  but  a  partnership  in  a 
struggle  against  odds  for  the  means  and  ministries  of  the  kind 
of  life  to  which  she  had  been  bred  ?  To  surrender  all  that  I 
had  expected  would  be  my  own,  and  Millie  Bradford  too,  was 
more  than  I  had  bargained  for,  in  my  negotiation  with  my 
self. 

I  had  not  yet  learned  that  a  duty  undone  is  always  in  the 
way — that  it  stands  so  near  and  high  before  the  feet  that  it  be 
comes  a  stumbling-block  over  which  thousands  are  constantly 
plunging  into  disaster.  Since  those  days,  in  which  I  was  taking 
my  first  lessons  in  life,  I  have  learned  that  to  do  one's  next 
duty  is  to  take  a  step  towards  all  that  is  worth  possessing — that 
it  is  the  one  step  which  may  always  be  taken  without  regard  to 
consequences,  and  that  there  is  no  successful  life  which  is  not 
made  up  of  steps  thus  consecutively  taken. 

I  reached  home,  not  expecting  to  find  my  father  there,  but  I 
was  informed  by  my  mother,  with  many  sighs  and  with  the  ex 
pression  of  many  confidential  fears,  that  he  was  breaking  down 
and  had  taken  to  his  bed.  Something,  she  said,  had  been 
preying  on  his  mind  which  she  was  unable  to  induce  him  to  re 
veal.  She  was  glad  I  had  come,  and  hoped  I  would  ascertain 
what  the  trouble  was.  She  had  been  looking  forward  to  some 
thing  of  this  kind  for  years,  and  had  frequently  warned  my 
father  of  it.  Mr.  Bird  had  been  there,  and  had  accompanied 
my  father  to  Mr.  Bradford's,  whence  he  had  returned  with  a  ter 
rible  headache.  She  always  had  believed  there  was  something 
wrong  about  Mr.  Bird,  and  she  always  should  believe  thus. 
As  for  Mr.  Bradford,  she  had  nothing  to  say  about  him  ;  but 


312  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

she  had  noticed  that  men  with  strange  notions  about  religion 
were  not  to  be  trusted. 

I  listened  to  the  long  and  doleful  story,  conscious  all  the 
time  that  my  father's  illness  was  one  into  which  he  had  been 
thrown  by  his  sympathy  for  me.  He  had  been  trying  to  do  his 
duty  by  me,  and  it  had  made  him  ill.  In  a  moment,  Millie 
Bradford  went  out  of  my  mind,  and  I  only  delayed  going  into 
his  room  long  enough  to  prepare  myself  to  comfort  him.  I 
presume  that  he  had  heard  my  voice,  for,  when  I  entered  the 
dear  old  man's  chamber,  his  face  was  turned  to  the  wall,  and 
he  was  feigning  unconsciousness  of  my  presence  in  the  house. 

"Well,  father,  what's  the  matter?"  I  said  cheerfully. 

"  Is  that  you  ?"  he  responded  feebly,  without  turning  his  head. 

"Yes." 

"  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  never  better  in  my  life,"  I  responded. 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Bradford  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  had  a  talk  with  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Has  he  told  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

I  was  laughing, — I  could  not  help  it, — when  I  was  sobered 
at  once  by  seeing  that  he  was  convulsed  with  emotion.  The 
bed  shook  with  his  passion,  and  he  could  not  say  a  word,  but 
lay  with  his  face  covered  by  his  hands.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  say,  and  concluded  to  say  nothing,  and  to  let  his  feeling 
take  its  natural  course.  For  many  long  minutes  he  lay  silently 
trying  to  recover  the  mastery  of  himself.  At  last  he  seized  the 
wet  handkerchief  with  which  he  had  been  trying  to  assuage  the 
pain  and  fever  of  his  head,  and  threw  it  into  a  corner  of  the 
room,  and  then  turned  toward  me,  laughing  and  crying  to 
gether,  and  stretched  his  arms  toward  me.  I  bowed  to  his 
embrace,  and  so  the  long  years  of  the  past  were  blotted  out  in 
our  mutual  tears,  and  we  were  boys  once  more. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  313 

I  brought  him  his  clothes,  and  he  put  them  on.  Then  I 
turned  the  key  in  the  door,  and,  sitting  down  side  by  side  upon 
the  bed,  we  talked  the  matter  all  over.  I  confessed  to  him  my 
idleness,  my  meanness,  my  shameless  sacrifice  of  golden  op 
portunities,  my  weakness  and  my  hesitations,  and  promised 
that  when  the  right  time  should  come  I  would  do  what  I  could 
to  give  Henry  and  his  mother  the  home  that  belonged  to  them, 
and  to  bestow  upon  my  benefactress  the  boon  which  she  would 
prize  a  thousand  times  more  than  all  the  money  she  had  ever 
expended  upon  me. 

"  And  you  are  not  going  to  be  unhappy  and  blame  me  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Never." 

"  And  are  you  coming  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  look  after  and  serve  you  all,  so  long  as  you  may 
live." 

We  looked  in  one  another's  faces,  and  the  same  thought 
thrilled  us.  We  knelt  at  the  bed,  and  my  father  poured  out 
his  gratitude  for  the  answer  that  had  come  with  such  sweet  and 
beautiful  fulfillment  to  his  prayers.  There  was  but  little  of 
petition  in  his  utterances,  for  his  heart  was  too  full  of  thankful 
ness  to  give  a  place  to  his  own  wants  or  to  mine.  When  he 
rose,  there  was  the  peace  of  heaven  on  his  features,  and  the 
light  of  a  new  life  in  his  faded  blue  eyes. 

"  Does  my  mother  know  of  this,"  I  inquired. 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  this  is  the  one  great  trouble  that 
lies  before  me  now." 

"  Let  me  break  it  to  her,  then,  while  you  go  out  of  the 
house,"  I  said. 

Jn  the  state  of  mind  in  which  my  father  found  himself  at  the 
close  of  our  interview,  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  subject  him 
to  the  questions  and  cavils  and  forebodings  of  my  mother.  So, 
taking  his  way  out  of  the  house  by  a  side  door,  he  left  me  at 
liberty  to  seek  her,  and  to  reconcile  her  to  the  new  determina 
tions  of  my  life. 

I  do  not  suppose  it  would  be  interesting  to  recount  the  long 


314  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

and  painful  conversation  I  had  with  her.  She  had  foreseen 
that  something  of  this  kind  would  occur.  She  had  never  be- 
lieved  that  that  great  fortune  would  come  to  me,  but  she  had 
never  dreamed  that  I  should  be  the  one  to  give  it  up.  She  was 
disappointed  in  Henry,  and,  as  for  Mrs.  Belden,  she  had  always 
regarded  her  as  a  schemer.  She  presumed,  too,  that  as  soon  as 
Henry  found  himself  the  possessor  of  a  fortune  he  would  forsake 
Claire — a  step  which  she  was  sure  would  kill  her.  It  all  came  of 
mingling  with  people  who  have  money.  Mr.  Bradford  was 
very  officious,  and  she  was  glad  that  I  had  found  out  Mr.  Bird 
at  last.  Her  life  had  been  a  life  of  trial,  and  she  had  not  been 
deceived  into  supposing  that  it  would  be  anything  else. 

During  all  the  time  I  had  been  in  the  house,  Claire  and  the 
boys  had  been  out.  My  task  with  my  mother  was  interrupted 
at  last  by  the  sound  of  Claire's  voice  at  the  door.  She  was 
trolling  in  her  own  happy  way  the  refrain  of  a  familiar  song. 
I  had  only  time  to  impress  upon  my  mother  the  necessity  of 
keeping  all  knowledge  of  the  new  phase  of  my  affairs  from  her 
and  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  to  secure  her  promise  in  accord 
ance  with  it,  before  Claire  entered  the  room.  I  knew  it  would 
be  best  that  my  sister  should  learn  everything  from  the  lips  of 
Henry.  She  would  have  been  distressed  beyond  measure  at 
the  change  in  my  prospects  as  well  as  the  change  in  her  own. 
1  knew  she  had  learned  to  look  forward  upon  life  as  a  struggle 
with  poverty,  by  the  side  of  a  brave  man,  equipped  for  victory. 
She  had  dreamed  of  helping  him,  solacing  him,  blessing  him  with 
faith  and  love,  and  rising  with  him  to  the  eminence  which  she  felt 
sure  he  had  the  power  to  achieve.  No  wildest  dream  of  her 
young  imagination  had  ever  enthroned  her  in  The  Mansion,  or 
made  her  more  than  a  welcome  visitor  there  after  its  present 
mistress  should  have  passed  away. 

I  exchanged  a  few  pleasant  words  with  her,  assuring  her  that 
I  had  cured  my  father  by  a  few  talismanic  touches,  and  sent 
him  out  to  get  some  fresh  air,  and  was  trying  my  cure  upon  my 
mother  when  she  interrupted  me.  Then  we  talked  about 
Henry,  and  his  rapid  progress  toward  recovery.  1  knew  that 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  315 

she  did  not  expect  or  wish  to  see  him,  because  the  visit  that 
such  a  step  would  render  necessary  would  be  regarded  as  the 
advertisement  of  an  engagement  which  had  not  yet  been  openly 
confessed.  But  she  was  glad  to  hear  all  about  him,  and  I 
gratified  her  by  the  rehearsal  of  all  the  details  that  I  could 
remember.  I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  I  talked  with  her, 
that  I  had  in  hand  still  another  destiny.  It  was  astonishing 
how  fruitful  a  good  determination  was,  when  it  took  the  path  of 
Providence  and  of  natural  law.  I  had  already  four  for  one, 
and  felt  that  1  could  not  foresee  how  many  more  would  be 
added  to  the  gain  already  made. 

When,  at  last,  I  bade  my  mother  and  Claire  a  "good  morn 
ing,"  the  only  question  left  upon  my  mind  concerned  the  time 
and  manner  of  the  announcement  to  Mrs.  Sanderson  of  the 
relations  of  Mrs.  Belden  and  Henry  to  her.  Henry,  I  knew, 
was  still  too  weak  to  be  subjected  to  strong  excitement  with 
out  danger,  and  this  fact  made  it  absolutely  necessary  to  defer 
the  proposed  revelation  and  the  changes  that  were  sure  to 
follow. 

I  went  out  upon  the  street  with  a  buoyant  feeling,  and  with 
that  sense  of  strength  that  one  always  feels  when  his  will  is 
consciously  in  harmony  with  the  Supreme  will,  and  his  deter 
minations  proceed  from  his  better  nature.  But  my  trials  had 
not  all  been  seen  and  surmounted. 

Making  a  detour  among  the  busier  streets,  that  my  passage 
to  The  Mansion  might  be  longer  and  more  varied,  I  saw,  walk 
ing  before  me,  an  elegant  young  man,  in  the  jauntiest  of  morn 
ing  costumes.  I  could  not  see  his  face,  but  I  knew  at  once 
that  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  city,  and  was  impressed  with  the 
conviction  that  I  was  familiar  with  his  gait  and  figure.  If  I 
had  seen  him  where  I  had  previously  known  him,  his  identity 
would  have  been  detected  at  once ;  but  he  was  the  young  man 
furthest  from  my  thoughts,  and  the  one  old  companion  whom 
1  had  learned  to  count  out  of  my  life.  I  quickened  my  steps, 
and,  as  I  approached  him,  some  sudden  and  characteristic 
movement  of  his  head  revealed  my  old  college  friend  Livingston. 


316  Arthur  Eonnicastle. 

"  Well,  well,  well  !  Man  in  the  Moon  !  When  did  you  drop, 
and  where  did  you  strike?"  I  shouted,  running  up  behind  him. 

He  wheeled  and  grasped  both  my  hands  in  his  cordial  way, 
pouring  out  his  greetings  and  compliments  so  freely  that  pas 
sengers  involuntarily  stopped  upon  the  walk  to  witness  the 
meeting. 

"  1  was  wondering  where  you  were,  and  was  about  to  in 
quire,"  he  said. 

"Were  you?     How  long  have  you  been  in  town  ?" 

"  Two  or  three  days,"  he  replied. 

"  You  must  have  been  very  desirous  to  find  me,"  I  re 
sponded.  "  I  have  a  good  mind  to  leave  you,  and  send  you 
my  address.  Permit  me  to  bid  you  good-morning.  This 
meeting  in  the  street  is  very  irregular." 

"  None  of  your  nonsense,  my  boy,"  said  he.  "  I  came  here 
on  business,  and  pleasure  comes  after  that,  you  know." 

"  Oho  !  Business  !  We  are  becoming  useful  are  we  ?  Can  I 
assist  you  ?  I  assure  you  I  have  nothing  else  to  do." 

"  Bonnicastle,"  said  he,  "you  are  hungry.  You  evidently 
want  something  to  stop  your  mouth.  Let's  go  into  the  hotel 
and  get  a  lunch." 

Saying  this,  he  grasped  my  arm,  and  we  walked  together 
back  to  his  hotel,  and  were  soon  seated  at  a  table  in  his  par 
lor,  doing  the  duty  of  two  hearty  young  men  to  a  chop  and  a 
salad. 

We  talked  of  old  times,  then  of  his  employments  since  he 
left  me  at  college  two  years  before,  and  then  I  told  him  of  my 
self,  of  the  encounter  at  The  Mansion  which  had  resulted  in 
Henry's  confinement  there  with  a  broken  limb,  and  of  the  way 
in  which  I  had  been  passing  my  time. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  next  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"That's  a  secret,"  I  said,  with  a  blush,  all  the  frolic  going 
out  of  me  in  a  moment. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

"What?" 

"  You  are  going  to  Europe  and  the  East  witl.  me.     We  are 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  317 

to  be  gone  two  years,  and  to  see  everything.  We'll  sing  Yan 
kee  Doodle  on  the  Pyramids,  have  a  fish-fry  on  the  shores  of 
Galilee,  light  our  cigars  at  Vesuvius,  call  on  the  Pope,  see  all 
the  pictures,  and  dance  with  all  the  pretty  girls  from  Vienna 
and  Paris  to  St.  Petersburg,  and  call  it  study.  On  very  rainy 
days,  we'll  write  dutiful  letters  to  our  friends,  conveying  assur 
ances  of  our  high  consideration,  and  asking  for  remittances." 

Little  did  the  merry  fellow  imagine,  as  he  rattled  off  his  pro 
gramme,  what  a  temptation  he  was  placing  before  me.  It  pre 
sented  the  most  agreeable  path  out  of  my  difficulty.  I  believed 
Mrs.  Sanderson  would  deny  me  nothing,  even  should  I  re 
nounce  all  my  expectations,  and  surrender  my  home  to  him  to 
whom  it  naturally  belonged.  The  act  of  surrender  would 
place  her  under  such  obligations  to  me  that  any  request  that 
might  come  with  it  would,  I  supposed,  be  sure  to  be  granted. 
Then  it  would  let  me  down  easily,  and  save  me  the  necessity 
of  facing  my  townsmen  under  my  new  circumstances.  It 
would  furnish  me  with  a  knowledge  of  the  world  which  would 
be  useful  to  me  in  the  future  task  of  providing  for  myself.  It 
would  complete  my  education,  and  give  me  the  finest  possible 
start  in  life.  Livingston's  connections  would  carry  me  into  the 
best  society,  and  bring  me  advantages  such  as  I  could  not 
secure  by  means  within  my  own  command. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  I  inquired,  hesitatingly. 

"  I  never  was  more  so  in  my  life." 

"  You  tempt  me." 

"Well,  you  know  just  how  much  my  rattle  means,"  said  he, 
sobered  by  the  tone  of  my  inquiry.  "  You  know  I  take  care 
of  myself,  and  others  too — when  they  let  me.  We  can  have  a 
good  time  and  one  that  will  do  us  good." 

While  I  felt  pretty  sure  that  I  should  not  go  with  him,  unless 
Mrs.  Sanderson  should  voluntarily  offer  me  the  means  for  the 
journey,  and  my  friends  should  urge  me  to  accept  them,  I  told 
him  I  would  think  of  it. 

"That's  right,"  he  said,  "and  you'Jl  conclude  to  go." 

"When?" 


318  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Next  month." 

Was  this  Providence  too  ?  Was  my  road  out  of  my  difficulty 
to  be  strewn  with  flowers  ?  How  could  I  tell  ?  Unexpect 
edly,  at  the  exact  moment  when  it  would  meet  with  a  greedy 
welcome,  came  this  proposition.  To  accept  it  would  be  to 
take  me  away  from  every  unpleasant  association,  and  all  the 
apprehended  trials  attending  the  execution  of  my  great  pur 
pose,  and  give  me  pleasure  that  I  coveted  and  culture  that  I 
needed.  To  reject  it  was  to  adopt  a  career  of  hardship 
at  once,  to  take  up  my  life  beneath  my  father's  humble  roof, 
to  expose  myself  to  the  triumphant  sneers  of  the  coarse  men 
who  had  envied  me,  and  to  forsake  forever  those  associations 
which  had  become  so  precious  to  me.  I  could  do  justice  to 
Henry  and  my  benefactress,  and  secure  this  great  pleasure  to 
myself  also.  Had  Providence  directed  all  this  ? 

Many  things  have  been  accepted  first  and  last,  among  men, 
as  providential,  under  the  mistaken  supposition  that  the  devil 
does  not  understand  the  value  of  times  and  opportunities. 
Evil  has  its  providences  as  well  as  Good ;  and  a  tempted  man 
is  often  too  much  befogged  to  distinguish  the  one  from  the 
other.  Interpreting  providences  by  wishes  is  the  favorite  trick 
of  fools. 

After  a  long  and  discursive  talk  on  the  subject  of  foreign 
travel  generally,  and  of  the  project  before  us  particularly,  I  was 
bold  enough  to  ask  Livingston  what  business  it  could  be  that 
had  brought  him  to  Bradford.  He  fought  shy  of  the  question 
and  seemed  to  be  embarrassed  by  it.  Licensed  by  the  famil 
iarly  friendly  terms  of  our  previous  intercourse,  I  good-nat 
uredly  pressed  my  question.  He  gave  all  kinds  of  evasive 
and  unsatisfactory  replies  ;  and  then  I  pushed  the  matter  further 
by  asking  him  what  friends  he  had  in  the  place,  and  endeavor 
ing  to  ascertain  what  new  acquaintances  he  had  made.  I 
could  not  learn  that  he  knew  anybody  in  Bradford  but  Henry 
and  myself,  and  I  became  satisfied  at  last  that  he  had  not 
been  frank  with  me.  It  is  true  that  he  was  not  accountable  to 
me,  and  that  I  had  no  right  to  pry  into  his  affairs ;  but  he  had 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  319 

volunteered  to  say  that  his  errand  was  a  business  errand ; 
and  I  felt  that  in  a  place  where  I  was  at  home,  and  he  was 
not,  I  could  serve  him  if  he  would  permit  me  to  do  so. 

As  soon  as  he  could  divert  me  from  my  purpose,  he  put  me 
the  question  whether  I  had  remained  heart  and  fancy  free ; 
"  for  you  know,"  he  said,  "  that  it  will  never  do  for  rovers  to 
leave  pining  maidens  behind  them." 

I  assured  him  (with  those  mental  reservations  with  which 
uncommitted  lovers  so  ingeniously  sophisticate  the  truth)  that 
there  was  not  a  woman  in  the  world,  with  the  exception  of  cer 
tain  female  relatives,  who  had  any  claim  upon  my  affection. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Livingston  with  sudden  interest,  as  if  the 
thought  had  struck  him  for  the  first  time,  "what  has  become 
of  that  little  Bradford  girl,  whom  we  met  on  that  memorable 
New  Year's  at  the  Spencers' ;  you  remember  that  old  house 
in  the  suburbs?  or  were  you  too  foggy  for  that  ?  " 

Jf  Livingston  had  realized  how  painful  such  an  allusion 
would  be  to  me,  he  would  not  have  made  it ;  but  his  standard 
of  morality,  so  far  as  it  related  to  excesses  in  drink,  was  so 
different  from  mine,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  appreciate 
the  shame  which  my  fall  had  caused  me,  and  the  shrinking  sor 
row  with  which  I  still  looked  back  upon  it. 

I  told  him  frankly  that  I  remembered  the  meeting  imper 
fectly,  and  that  I  heartily  wished  I  had  no  memory  of  it  what 
ever.  "  J  made  an  ass  of  myself,"  I  said,  "  and  worse  ;  and  I 
doubt  whether  it  has  ever  been  forgotten,  or  ever  will  be." 

There  was  a  quiet  lighting  of  his  eye  as  he  heard  this ;  and 
then  he  went  on  to  say  that  her  New  York  friends  told  very 
extravagant  stories  about  her  beauty  and  attractiveness,  and 
that  he  should  really  like  to  fall  in  with  her  again.  Then  he 
went  on  to  moralize,  after  the  wise  manner  of  young  men,  on 
the  heartlessness  of  city  life,  and  particularly  of  city  girls,  and 
said  that  he  had  often  told  his  mother  that  no  hot-house  rose 
should  ever  adorn  his  button-hole,  provided  he  could  pluck  a 
satisfactory  wayside  daisy. 

A  jealous  lover  has  no  rival  in  the  instantaneous  construe- 


320  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

tion  of  a  hypothesis.  I  saw  at  once  the  whole  trick.  Tiring  of 
his  New  York  life,  having  nothing  whatever  to  do,  remember 
ing  the  beautiful  face  and  hearty  manner  of  Millie  Bradford, 
and  moved  by  some  recent  conversations  about  her  with  her 
friends,  he  had  started  off  from  home  with  the  determination  to 
meet  her  in  some  way.  Endeavoring  first  to  assure  himself  that 
I  had  no  claim  upon  her,  he  undoubtedly  intended  to  engage 
my  services  to  bring  about  a  renewal  of  his  acquaintance  with  her. 

I  had  met  my  rival ;  for  I  could  not  but  feel  that  if  lie  had 
been  impressed  by  her  when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child, 
her  charms  of  womanhood — her  beautiful  person,  and  her 
bright,  pure  nature — would  impress  him  still  more.  It  was  a 
bitter  draught  for  me  to  drink,  without  the  privilege  of  making 
a  wry  face  or  uttering  a  protest.  He  was  maturer  than  I,  and 
possessed  of  every  personal  attraction.  He  carried  with  him, 
and  had  behind  him,  the  highest  social  consideration  and 
inlluence.  He  was  rich,  he  was  not  base,  he  was  the  best  of 
his  set,  he  was  the  master  of  himself  and  of  all  the  arts  of 
society  ;  he  was  one  of  those  young  men  whose  way  with 
women  is  easy.  What  was  I  by  the  side  of  a  man  like  him  ? 
The  only  occasion  on  which  Millie  Bradford  had  ever  seen  him 
was  one  associated  with  my  disgrace.  She  could  never  meet 
him  again  without  recalling  my  fall,  and  his  own  honorable 
freedom  from  all  responsibility  for  it.  The  necessity  of  getting 
him  out  of  the  country  by  a  period  of  foreign  travel  seemed 
laid  upon  me.  To  have  him  within  an  easy  distance,  after  I 
had  voluntarily  forsaken  my  fortune,  and  before  I  had  had  an 
opportunity  to  prove  my  power  to  achieve  a  fortune  for 
myself,  was  to  live  a  life  of  constant  misery,  with  the  chances 
of  having  the  one  grand  prize  of  existence  torn  from  my  hands 
and  borne  hopelessly  beyond  my  reach. 

"Oh,  it's  a  daisy  business,  is  it?"  I  said,  with  a  pale  face 
and  such  carelessness  of  tone  as  I  could  assume.  "  There  are 
lots  of  them  round  here.  They're  a  bit  dusty,  perhaps,  in  dry 
weather,  but  are  fresh  after  a  shower.  You  would  never  be 
contented  with  one  :  what  do  you  say  to  a  dozen  ?  " 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  321 

Livingston  laughed,  and  laughed  in  such  a  way  that  I  knew 
he  had  no  business  in  Bradford.  But  why  had  he  kept  away  from 
me  ?  Why  had  he  been  three  days  in  the  town  without  appris 
ing  me  of  his  presence  ? 

He  held  up  his  hand  and  looked  at  it  with  a  curious  smile. 
"  Bonnicastle,"  said  he,  "  do  you  see  anything  peculiar  on  the 
back  of  that  hand  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied,  "  except  that  it  seems  to  be  clean." 

"  Does  it  seem  to  you  that  there  is  one  spot  on  it  that  is 
cleaner  than  all  the  rest  ?  "  he  inquired. 

I  confessed  that  I  was  unable  to  detect  any  such  locality. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  there  is  a  spot  there  which  I  could  define  to 
you,  if  I  should  try,  that  I  have  kept  clean  for  two  years,  and 
which  has  a  life  and  sacredness  of  its  own.  It  once  had  a  sen 
sation — the  sweetest  and  most  thrilling  that  you  can  imagine. 
It  was  pressed  by  a  pair  of  innocent  lips,  and  wet  by  as  sweet 
a  dew-drop  as  ever  nestled  in  the  heart  of  a  rose.  You  never 
thought  me  romantic,  but  that  little  touch  and  baptism  have 
set  that  hand  apart — for  the  present,  any  way." 

"  If  you  wish  to  give  me  to  understand  that  Milly  Bradford 
ever  kissed  your  hand  and  dropped  a  tear  upon  it,  you  have 
brought  your  chaff  to  the  wrong  market,"  I  said,  the  anger  ris 
ing  in  my  heart  and  the  color  mounting  to  my  face. 

"  Don't  be  hasty,  old  fellow,"  said  he,  reaching  over  and 
patting  me  on  my  shoulder.  "  I've  said  nothing  about  Millie 
Bradford.  I've  lived  among  roses  and  daisies  all  my  life." 

Whether  Livingston  saw  that  I  had  a  little  personal  feeling 
about  the  matter,  or  felt  that  he  had  been  foolishly  confidential, 
or  were  afraid  that  I  should  push  him  to  an  explanation,  which 
would  compel  him  to  reveal  the  circumstances  under  which 
Millie  had  begged  his  forgiveness  with  a  kiss,  for  charging  him 
with  my  intoxication — a  fact  of  which  I  was  too  stupid  at  the 
time  to  be  conscious — I  do  not  know  ;  but  he  assured  me  that 
he  had  been  talking  nonsense,  and  that  I  was  to  lay  up  and 
remember  nothing  that  he  had  said. 

We  had  already  pushed  back  from  the  table,  and  he  had 
14* 


322  Artliur  Bonnicastle. 

rung  for  a  waiter  to  have  it  cleared.  In  response  to  the  bell, 
a  man  came  with  his  tray  in  one  hand  and  a  card  in  the  other. 
Handing  the  latter  to  Livingston,  the  young  man  took  it  with  a 
strange,  embarrassed  flush  on  his  face.  Turning  it  over,  and 
looking  at  it  the  second  time,  he  exclaimed  :  "  I  wonder  how 
he  knew  me  to  be  here.  It's  your  friend  Mr.  Bradford."  Then 
turning  to  the  waiter,  he  added :  "Take  these  dishes  away  and 
ask  him  up." 

I  rose  at  once  to  go  ;  and  he  did  not  detain  me,  or  suggest 
a  future  meeting.  I  shook  his  hand  and  bade  him  "good-morn 
ing,"  but  was  arrested  at  the  door  by  finding  Mr.  Bradford  wait 
ing  outside.  Seeing  Livingston  within,  he  came  forward,  and, 
while  he  took  my  arm  and  led  me  back,  said  :  "  I  am  some 
what  in  haste  this  morning,  and  so  have  followed  my  card  at 
once.  I  am  not  going  to  separate  two  fellows  like  you ;  so, 
Arthur,  sit  down." 

I  did  not  believe  my  presence  welcome  to  Livingston  during 
this  interview ;  but  as  I  was  curious  to  witness  it,  and  had  a 
sufficient  apology  for  doing  so,  I  sat  down,  and  remained. 

"  I  have  just  taken  from  the  office,"  Mr.  Bradford  went  on, 
"  a  letter  from  my  friends  the  Spencers,  who  tell  me  that  you 
are  to  be  here  for  a  few  days  ;  and  as  the  letter  has  evidently 
been  detained  on  the  way,  I  have  called  at  once  to  apologize 
for  not  having  called  before." 

Livingston  was  profuse  in  his  protestations  that  it  was  not  of 
the  slightest  consequence,  and  that  while  he  should  have  been 
glad  to  meet  Mr.  Bradford,  he  had  passed  his  time  quite  pleas 
antly.  I  saw  at  once  what  had  occupied  him  during  those 
three  days,  in  which  he  had  not  announced  his  presence  to  me. 
He  had  been  awaiting  the  arrival  of  this  letter.  He  had  chosen 
to  be  introduced  in  this  way,  rather  than  bear  the  letter  him 
self.  It  was  a  cunningly-contrived,  but  a  very  transparent, 
proceeding. 

Livingston  was  invited  to  the  Bradfords  to  dine  the  next  day, 
of  course,  and  quite  of  course,  as  I  was  present  when  the  invi 
tation  was  given,  I  was  invited  to  meet  him.  This  was  satis- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  323 

factory  to  me,  though  I  doubt  whether  Livingston  was  pleased 
with  the  arrangement,  for  he  had  evidently  intended  to  see 
Millie  Bradford  before  he  announced  himself  to  me. 

Inviting  my  friend  to  call  at  The  Mansion  during  the  after 
noon  and  make  my  aunt's  acquaintance,  and  renew  his  ac 
quaintance  with  Henry,  I  took  my  leave  of  him  and  passed  out 
with  Mr.  Bradford.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  learn  how 
pleasantly  the  latter  remembered  my  college  acquaintance,  and 
how  high  an  estimate  he  placed  upon  him.  If  Livingston 
could  have  heard  his  hearty  words  of  praise,  he  would  have 
learned  how  smoothly  the  way  was  paved  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  his  hopes  and  his  possible  purposes.  In  my  jealousy, 
every  word  he  uttered  was  full  of  discouragement,  for  I  was  sure 
that  I  knew  the  motive  which  had  drawn  Livingston  to  the 
town,  while  Mr.  Bradford  was  as  innocent  as  a  child  of  any 
suspicions  of  such  a  motive. 

As  we  came  near  his  house,  I  said :  "  You  are  in  haste  this 
morning,  but  I  wish  to  see  you  soon — before  to-morrow,  if  you 
can  spare  me  the  time." 

"  Come  in  to-night,  then,"  he  responded. 

At  night,  accordingly,  I  went,  and  he  received  me  alone,  as 
he  did  on  the  previous  day.  I  told  him  of  my  interview  with 
my  father  and  mother,  and  of  the  determination  at  which  I  had 
arrived  with  relation  to  Mrs.  Sanderson  and  Henry.  He  list 
ened  to  me  with  warm  approval,  which  was  evident,  though  he 
said  but  little  ;  but  when  I  told  him  of  Livingston's  proposition 
to  travel,  and  my  wishes  in  regard  to  it,  he  dropped  his  head 
as  if  he  were  disappointed.  I  urged  the  matter,  and  frankly 
gave  him  the  reasons  for  my  desire  to  absent  myself  for  a 
while  after  the  change  in  my  circumstances. 

He  made  me  no  immediate  reply,  but  rose  and  walked  the 
room,  as  if  perplexed  and  uncertain  concerning  the  response 
which  he  ought  to  make  to  the  project.  At  length  he  paused 
before  me,  and  said  :  "  Arthur,  you  are  young,  and  I  am  afraid 
that  I  expect  too  much  of  you.  I  see  very  plainly,  however, 
that  if  you  go  away  for  a  protracted  absence,  to  live  still  longer 


324  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

on  Mrs.  Sanderson's  benefactions,  you  will  return  more  dis 
qualified  than  you  are  at  this  moment  to  take  up  an  indepen 
dent  life.  I  do  not  approve  of  your  plan,  but  I  will  not  lift  a 
linger  to  thwart  it.  After  you  have  surrendered  your  place  in 
Mrs.  Sanderson's  family,  you  will  be  in  a  better  position  to 
judge  whether  your  plan  be  either  desirable  or  practicable." 

Then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  in  an  affectionate 
way,  and  added  :  "  I  confess  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  sight  of 
you  for  the  next  two  years.  Your  father  needs  you,  and  will 
need  you  more  and  more.  Besides,  the  next  two  years  are  to 
confirm  you  more  than  you  can  see  in  the  style  of  character 
and  manhood  which  you  are  to  carry  through  life.  I  am  very 
anxious  that  these  two  years  should  be  made  the  most  of." 

The  interview  was  a  brief  one,  and  I  left  the  presence  and 
house  of  my  friend  under  the  impression  that  he  not  only  did 
not  approve  my  plan,  but  that  he  thought  it  very  doubtful 
whether  I  should  have  the  opportunity  to  realize  it.  He  said 
but  little,  yet  I  saw  that  his  faith  in  Mrs.  Sanderson's  gener 
osity,  where  her  own  selfish  ends  were  not  involved,  was  not 
very  hearty. 

On  the  following  day  I  met  Livingston  at  Mr.  Bradford's 
table.  The  family  were  all  at  home,  and  Millie,  most  becom 
ingly  dressed,  never  had  seemed  so  beautiful  to  me.  Living 
ston  was  evidently  very  much  impressed  by  her  charms,  and 
showed  by  the  attention  he  bestowed  upon  her  his  desire  to 
appear  at  his  best  in  her  presence.  I  was  distressed  by  my 
own  youth,  and  the  easy  superiority  which  he  manifested  in  all 
his  manners  and  conversation. 

It  was  strange,  too,  to  see  how  the  girl's  quick  nature  had 
shot  beyond  mine  into  maturity,  and  how,  in  her  womanliness, 
she  matched  my  friend  better  than  myself.  I  was  full  of  em 
barrassment  and  jealousy.  The  words  that  were  addressed  to 
me  by  the  other  members  of  the  family  were  half  unheard  and 
but  clumsily  replied  to,  absorbed  as  I  was  in  watching  Living 
ston  and  Millie,  and  seeing  how  happily  they  carried  on  their 
conversation.  I  was  enraged  with  myself — I  who  had  always 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  325 

been  quick  and  careless — for  I  knew  that  I  did  not  appear  well, 
and  felt  that  the  girl,  whose  senior  I  was  by  several  years,  re 
garded  me  as  a  youth  in  whom  the  flavor  and  power  of  maturity 
were  lacking.  Livingston  was  a  man,  she  was  a  woman,  and  I 
was  a  boy.  I  saw  it  all  and  felt  it  all,  with  pangs  that  none  may 
know  save  those  who  have  experienced  them. 

The  evening  did  not  pass  away,  however,  without  giving  me 
an  opportunity  for  a  quiet  talk  with  Millie.  There  was  one 
woman  whose  sharp  vision  did  not  fail  to  detect  the  real  state 
of  affairs.  Aunt  Flick  was  on  the  alert.  She  had  watched  the 
play  from  the  first,  with  eyes  that  comprehended  the  situation, 
and  in  her  own  perverse  way  she  was  my  friend.  She  managed 
to  call  Livingston  away  from  Millie,  and  then  I  took  a  seat  at 
her  side.  I  tried  to  lead  her  into  conversation  on  the  subject 
most  interesting  to  me,  but  she  declined  to  say  a  word,  though 
I  knew  that  she  was  aware  of  all  that  was  occurring  in  relation 
to  my  life. 

The  moments  were  precious,  and  I  said  impulsively,  out  of 
the  burden  of  my  heart,  "  Miss  Bradford,  I  am  passing  through 
a  great  trial." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  replied,  looking  away  from  me. 

"  Are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"  No," — still  looking  away. 

"  Are  you  my  friend  ?" 

"  That  depends." 

"  I  get  very  little  sympathy,"  I  responded  bitterly.  "  No  one 
but  my  dear  old  father  seems  to  understand  how  hard  this  is, 
and  how  hard  all  have  helped  to  make  it  for  me.  The  revolu 
tion  of  one's  life  is  not  a  pleasant  process.  A  dozen  words, 
spoken  to  me  by  the  right  lips,  would  make  many  things  easy 
and  anything  possible." 

She  turned  to  me  in  a  startled  way,  as  if  I  had  given  her  sud 
den  pain,  and  she  had  been  moved  to  ask  me  why  I  had  done 
it.  I  was  thrilled  by  the  look,  and  thoroughly  ashamed  of  the 
words  that  had  inspired  it.  What  right  had  I  to  come  to  her 
with  my  troubles  ?  What  right  had  I  to  seek  for  her  sympathy  ? 


326  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Was  it  manly  for  me  to  seek  help  from  her  to  be  a  man  ?  If 
she  had  not  pitied  me  and  seen  further  than  I  did,  she  would 
have  spurned  me. 

This  conversation  was  nothing  but  a  brief  episode  in  the 
evening's  experiences,  but  it  made  a  healthy  impression  upon 
me. 

Livingston  and  I  left  the  Bradfords  together,  and,  as  we 
were  to  take  opposite  directions  to  our  lodgings,  we  parted  at 
the  door.  Not  a  word  was  said  about  Millie  ;  and  all  that  he 
said  about  the  Bradfords  was  in  the  guarded  words :  "  These 
friends  of  yours  seem  to  be  very  nice  people."  I  knew  that  he 
would  be  there  again,  as  soon  as  it  would  be  practicable,  and 
that  he  would  be  there  without  me.  I  was  quite  reconciled  to 
this,  for  I  saw  that  he  monopolized  attention,  and  that  I  could 
be  nothing  but  a  boy  by  his  side,  when  he  chose  that  I  should 
be. 

He  remained  in  the  town  for  a  week,  calling  upon  the  Brad 
ford  family  nearly  every  day,  and  on  one  occasion  taking  a  drive 
with  them  in  the  family  carriage.  In  the  meantime  Henry 
made  rapid  strides  toward  recovery,  and  the  dreaded  hour 
approached  when  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  take  the  step 
which  would  abruptly  change  the  current  of  my  life. 

When  I  parted  with  Livingston,  he  still  entertained  the  proj 
ect  of  travel,  and  said  that  he  should  return  in  a  fortnight  to 
ascertain  my  conclusions. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MRS.  SANDERSON  MEETS  HER  GRANDSON  AND  I  RETURN  TO  MY 
FATHER'S  HOME. 

LIVINGSTON  had  been  gone  three  or  four  days  when,  one 
morning,  Henry's  surgical  attendant  came  down  stairs  from  his 
regular  visit  to  the  young  man,  and  announced  that  his  patient 
was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  and  that  he  would  soon 
be  able  to  take  a  little  passive  exercise  in  the  open  air.  Having 
given  me  directions  with  regard  to  getting  him  back  to  his  bed, 
when  he  should  become  tired  with  sitting,  he  went  away.  The 
sudden  realization  that  Henry  was  so  near  the  point  of  perfect 
recovery  sent  the  blood  to  my  heart  with  a  dull  throb  that  made 
me  tremble.  I  knew  that  he  would  endeavor  to  get  away  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  that  he  would  go  whenever  his  mother 
should  consider  it  safe  for  him  to  be  separated  from  her. 

"  Are  you  well  to  day  ? "  I  said,  lifting  my  eyes  to  my 
aunt. 

"  Perfectly  well." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  have  a  long  talk  with  me  this  morning  ?  " 
I  inquired. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  quick,  sharp  glance,  and  seeing  that 
I  was  agitated,  replied  with  the  question  :  "  Is  it  a  matter  of 
great  importance  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  the  greatest  importance." 

"  H'm  !     You're  not  in  love,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  responded,  coloring  in  spite  of  the  terrible  depres 
sion  that  had  come  upon  me,  "  though  I  probably  should  not 
tell  of  it  if  I  were." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't,"  she  answered 
quickly. 


328  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I  wish  it 
had,  but  it  doesn't  look  as  if  anything  of  that  kind  would  ever 
come  to  me." 

"  Psh  !  You're  a  boy.  Don't  worry  yourself  before  your 
time." 

We  were  seated  in  the  little  library  where  she  first  received 
me.  I  rose  from  my  chair,  went  to  the  door  that  opened  into 
the  hall,  and  locked  it.  The  door  into  the  dining-room  stood 
ajar,  and  I  threw  it  wide  open.  Then  I  went  back  to  my  chair 
and  sat  down.  She  watched  these  movements  in  silent  aston 
ishment,  and  her  eyes  fairly  burned  with  excited  curiosity  when 
I  concluded  them. 

Looking  into  the  dining-room  upon  the  picture  that  still  hung 
where  I  had  replaced  it,  I  said  :  "  Aunt,  you  must  forgive 
me  ;  but  I  have  learned  all  about  that  picture,  and  I  know  the 
whole  history  of  the  person  whom  it  represents." 

"  Who  has  been  base  enough  to  tell  you  ? "  she  almost 
screamed. 

"  A  person  who  wishes  no  harm  either  to  you  or  me,"  I 
replied. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  at  the  first  announcement,  but  she 
sank  back  into  her  chair  again,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  Suddenly  steeling  herself  against  the  feelings  that  were 
overwhelming  her,  she  dropped  her  hands,  and  said,  with  a 
voice  equally  charged  with  fright  and  defiance  :  "  So,  this  is 
the  important  business,  is  it  !  You  have  listened  to  the  voice 
of  a  slanderer,  who  has  represented  me  to  be  little  better  than 
a  fiend ;  and  I  am  to  be  lectured,  am  I  ?  You,  to  whom  I  have 
given  my  bread  and  my  fortune — you,  to  whom  I  have  given 
my  love — are  turning  against  me,  are  you  ?  You  have  con 
sented  to  sit  still  and  hear  me  maligned  and  condemned,  have 
you  ?  Do  you  wish  to  forsake  me  ?  Have  I  done  anything  to 
deserve  such  treatment  at  your  hands  ?  Does  my  presence 
defile  you  ?  Do  I  go  about  meddling  with  other  people's  busi 
ness  ?  Have  I  meddled  with  anything  that  was  not  my  own  ? 
I  would  like  to  know  who  has  been  poisoning  your  mind  against 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  329 

me.     Has  there  been  anything  in  my  treatment  of  you  that 
would  lead  you  to  think  me  possessed  of  the  devil  ?  " 

She  poured  out  these  words  in  a  torrent  so  impetuous  and 
continuous  that  I  could  not  even  attempt  to  interrupt  her  ;  and  it 
was  better  that  she  should  spend  the  first  gush  of  her  passion  with 
out  hinderance.  It  was  to  me  a  terrible  revelation  of  the 
condition  of  her  mind,  and  of  the  agitations  to  which  it  was 
familiar.  This  was  doubtless  the  first  utterance  to  which  those 
agitations  had  ever  forced  her. 

I  paused  for  a  minute  to  collect  my  thoughts,  while  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  again.  Then  I  said  :  "  Mrs.  San 
derson,  I  have  noticed,  since  my  return  from  college  particularly, 
that  you  have  been  in  trouble.  I  have  seen  you  many  times 
before  that  picture,  and  known  that  it  was  associated  in  your 
mind  with  distressing  thoughts.  It  has  troubled  me,  because  it 
has  given  me  the  impression  that  I  am  in  some  way,  directly  or 
indirectly,  connected  with  it.  I  have  sought  for  the  explanation 
and  found  it.  No  one  has  prejudiced  my  mind  against  you,  as  I 
will  prove  to  you  by  such  a  sacrifice  as  few  men  have  been  called 
upon  to  make.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  do  not 
now  see  how  it  is  possible  for  me  ever  to  cease  to  be  grateful  to 
you.  You  have  been  my  most  generous  and  indulgent  bene 
factress,  and  it  is  partly  because  I  am  grateful,  and  desire  to 
prove  my  gratitude,  that  I  have  sought  this  interview." 

She  looked  up  to  me  with  a  dazed,  distressed  expression 
upon  her  sharpened  features,  as  if  waiting  for  me  to  go  on. 

"  There  was  once  a  little  boy,"  I  said,  "  who  grew  up  in  this 
old  house,  under  his  mother's  care  ;  and  then  he  went  away, 
and  went  wrong.  His  mother  was  distracted  with  his  ingrati-  . 
tude  and  his  excesses,  and  finally  cut  him  adrift,  with  the  means 
of  continuing  his  dissipations.  After  a  time  he  married  one  of 
God's  own  angels." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  interrupted,  spitefully. 
"You  know  nothing  about  her.  She  was  a  poor  girl  without  any 
position,  who  managed  to  weave  her  net  about  him  and  inveigle 
him  into  marriage.  I  cursed  her  then,  and  I  curse  her  still." 


33O  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Don't,  aunt,"  I  said.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  done  some 
things  in  your  life  that  you  are  sorry  for,  and  I  know  you  will 
be  sorry  for  this." 

"  Don't  lecture  me,  boy." 

"I  don't  lecture  you.  I  don't  presume  to  do  anything  of 
the  kind,  but  I  know  I  speak  the  truth." 

"  Well,  then,  what  about  the  angel  ?  " 

"  She  did  her  best  to  make  him  what  his  mother  had  failed 
to  make  him." 

"And  the  angel  failed,"  she  said  contemptuously.  "Cer 
tainly  a  woman  may  be  excused  for  not  accomplishing  what  a  su 
perior  being  failed  to  accomplish." 

"  Yes,  the  angel  failed,  mainly  because  his  mother  would  not 
help  her." 

"  I  tell  you  again  that  you  know  nothing  about  it.  I  am  a 
fool  for  listening  to  another  word." 

It  was  a  strange  thing  to  me,  as  I  sat  before  this  agitated 
woman,  quarreling  with  her  own  history,  and  helplessly  angry 
with  me  and  with  the  unknown  man  who  had  given  me  my  infor 
mation,  to  find  myself  growing  cool  and  strong  with  every  burst 
of  her  passion.  I  had  found  and  pierced  the  joints  of  her 
closely-knit  harness.  I  was  in  the  center  of  the  rankling  secret 
of  her  life,  and  she  was  self-contained  no  longer.  I  was  in 
power,  and  she  was  fretfully  conscious  that  she  was  not. 

"Yes,  the  angel  failed,  because  his  mother  would  not  help 
her.  I  presume  the  mother  intended  to  drive  that  angel  to  for 
sake  him,  and  compel  him  to  return  to  herself.  If  she  did  not 
have  so  good  a  motive  as  this,  she  intended  to  drive  him  to  the 
grave  into  which  he  was  soon  gathered." 

"  Oh,  Arthur  !  Arthur  !  Arthur  !  Don't  say  it !  don't  say  it  !  " 
The  anger  was  gone,  and  the  old  remorse  which  had  been 
eating  at  her  heart  for  years  resumed  its  sway.  She  writhed 
in  her  chair.  She  wrung  her  hands.  She  rose  and  paced  the 
room,  in  a  painful,  tottering  way,  which  distressed  me,  and 
made  me  fear  that  I  had  been  harsh,  or  had  chosen  the  wrong 
plan  for  approaching  her  and  executing  my  purpose. 


ArtJiur  Bonnicastle.  331 

"Yes,  aunt,  the  woman  was  an  angel.  If  she  had  not  been, 
she  would  have  become  a  torment  to  you.  Did  she  ever  write 
to  you  ?  Did  she  ever  ask  a  favor  of  you  ?  Do  you  suppose 
that  she  would  ever  receive  from  you  a  farthing  of  the  wealth 
that  her  husband  would  rightly  have  inherited,  unless  first  you 
had  poured  out  your  heart  to  her  in  a  prayer  for  forgiveness  ? 
Has  she  acted  like  a  mercenary  woman  ?  No,  aunt,  it  is  you 
who  know  nothing  about  her." 

"  She  was  nothing  to  me,"  Mrs.  Sanderson  said.  "  She 
never  could  have  been  anything  to  me." 

"  That  you  don't  know." 

"  Well,  what  else  have  you  to  say  ?  " 

"  She  is  living  to-day,  and,  in  a  self-respectful  way,  is  earn 
ing  her  own  livelihood." 

"  I  tell  you  again  she  is  nothing  to  me,"  my  aunt  responded. 
"  She  is  doing  to-day  what  I  presume  she  did  before  her  mar 
riage.  I  know  of  no  reason  why  she  should  not  earn  her  living. 
She  probably  knows  me  well  enough  to  know  that  I  will  do 
nothing  for  her,  and  can  be  nothing  to  her.  If  you  have  taken 
it  into  your  head  to  try  to  bring  me  to  recognize  her  and  give 
her  money,  I  can  tell  you  that  you  have  undertaken  a  very 
foolish  and  fruitless  enterprise.  If  this  is  all  you  have  to  say 
to  me,  we  may  as  well  stop  our  conversation  at  once.  It  is  a 
boy's  business,  and  if  you  know  what  is  for  your  own  good  you 
will  never  allude  to  her  again." 

She  rose  impatiently  as  if  determined  to  close  the  interview, 
but  I  did  not  stir ;  so,  seeing  me  determined,  she  sat  down 
again. 

"  Mrs.  Sanderson,"  I  said,  "  is  your  heart  satisfied  with  me  ? 
Have  you  not,  especially  in  these  last  years  and  months,  longed 
for  some  one  of  your  own  blood  on  whom  to  bestow  your  af 
fections?  I  grant  that  you  have  treated  me  like  a  son.  I 
grant  that  I  not  only  have  nothing  to  complain  of,  but  that  I 
have  a  thousand  things  to  be  grateful  for.  You  have  tried  to 
love  me.  You  have  determined  with  all  your  power  of  will  to 
make  me  everything  to  yourself ;  but,  after  all,  are  you  satisfied  ? 


332  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Though  one  of  your  kindred,  my  blood  does  not  come  near 
enough  to  yours  to  make  me  yours.  Have  you  not  longed  to 
do  something  before  you  die  to  wipe  out  the  memories  that 
haunt  you  ?  " 

She  watched  me  with  sad,  wide-open  eyes,  as  I  firmly  and 
tenderly  said  all  this,  and  then,  as  if  she  could  conceive  of  but 
one  conclusion,  her  anger  rose  again,  and  she  exclaimed : 
"  Don't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  this  woman  !  I  tell  you  I 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  her." 

"  I  am  saying  nothing  about  this  woman,  aunt,"  I  responded. 
"  I  am  going  to  talk  about  some  one  besides  this  woman,  for 
she  had  a  child,  of  whom  your  son  was  the  father." 

"  What  ?  " 

Half  exclamation,  half  interrogation,  the  word  pierced  my 
ears  like  a  scream. 

"  Mrs.  Sanderson,  you  are  the  grandmother  of  as  noble  a 
man  as  breathes." 

She  cried  ;  she  laughed  ;  she  exclaimed  :  "  Oh,  Arthur  !  Oh 
God!"  She  covered  her  face;  she  threw  her  handkerchief 
upon  the  floor ;  she  tore  open  her  dress  to  relieve  her  throbbing 
heart,  and  yielded  herself  to  such  a  tumult  of  conflicting  pas 
sions  as  I  had  never  witnessed  before — such  as  I  hope  I  may 
never  be  called  upon  to  witness  again.  I  sat  frightened  and 
dumb.  I  feared  she  would  die — that  she  could  not  survive 
such  agitations. 

"  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  I  have  a  grandson  !  I  have  a  grandson  ! 
Oh,  Arthur  !  Oh,  God  !  Is  it  so  ?  Is  it  so  ?  You  lie  !  You 
know  you  lie  !  You  are  deceiving  me.  Is  it  so,  Arthur  ?  Say 
it  again.  It  can't  be  so.  I  should  have  known  it.  Somebody 
has  lied  to  you.  Oh,  how  could  you,  how  could  you  deceive 
an  old  woman,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave — an  old  woman  who 
has  loved  you,  and  done  all  she  could  for  you  ?  How  could 
you,  Arthur?" 

Thus  she  poured  out  her  emotions  and  doubts  and  depreca 
tions,  unmindful  of  all  my  attempts  to  interrupt  her,  and  I  saw 
at  once  that  it  was  the  only  mode  by  which  she  could  ever  be- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  333 

come  composed  enough  to  hear  the  rest  of  my  story.  The 
storm  could  only  resolve  itself  into  calm  through  the  processes 
of  storm.  When  she  had  exhausted  herself  she  sank  back  in  her 
chair.  Then,  as  if  moved  by  an  impulse  to  put  me  under  the 
strongest  motive  to  truthfulness,  she  rose  and  came  to  me. 
With  a  movement  so  sudden  that  I  was  entirely  unprepared  for 
it,  she  threw  herself  upon  my  lap,  and  clasping  her  arms  around 
my  neck,  placed  her  lips  close  to  my  ear,  and  said  in  a  voice 
surcharged  with  tender  pleading:  "Don't  deceive  me,  dear! 
Don't  be  cruel  to  me  !  I  have  never  used  you  ill.  Tell  me 
all  about  it,  just  as  it  is.  I  am  an  old  woman.  I  have  only  a 
little  while  to  live." 

"  I  have  told  you  everything  just  as  it  is,"  I  responded. 

"And  I  have  a  grandchild?  " 

"  One  that  you  may  love  and  be  proud  of.  " 

"  And  can  I  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  will  come  to  live  with  me,  if  I  ask 
him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Does  he  hate  me?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  hates  anybody." 

"  Is  he  with  his  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  fond  of  her  ?  " 

"  So  fond  of  her,"  I  answered,  "  that  he  will  accept  no  invi 
tation  from  you  that  does  not  include  her." 

"  I  take  it  all  back,  Arthur,"  she  said.  "  He  is  right.  He 
is  a  Bonnicastle.  When  can  I  see  him  ?  " 

"  Soon,  I  think." 

"  And  I  have  really  a  grandson — a  good  grandson  ?  how 
long  have  you  known  it  ?  " 

"Only  a  few  days." 


334  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  not  live  forty-eight  hours.  I  must  see  him 
at  once." 

"  You  shall  see  him  soon." 

Then  she  patted  my  cheek  and  kissed  me,  and  played  with 
rny  hair  like  a  child.  She  called  me  her  good  boy,  her  noble 
boy.  Then,  struck  suddenly  with  the  thought  of  the  changes 
that  were  progressing  in  her  own  mind  and  affections,  and  the 
changes  that  were  imminent  in  her  relations  to  me,  she  rose  and 
went  back  to  her  chair.  When  I  looked  her  in  the  face  again, 
I  was  astonished  at  the  change  which  a  single  moment  of  reflec 
tion  had  wrought  upon  her.  Her  anger  wras  gone,  her  remorse 
had  vanished,  her  self-possession  had  come  back  to  her,  en 
veloping  her  as  with  an  armor  of  steel,  and  she  was  once  more 
the  Mrs.  Sanderson  of  old.  How  was  she  to  get  rid  of  rne  ? 
What  arrangement  could  she  make  to  get  me  out  of  the  house, 
loosen  my  hold  upon  my  expectations,  and  instal  the  rightful 
heir  of  her  wealth  in  her  home  ?  She  turned  to  her  new  life 
and  her  new  schemes  with  the  eager  determination  of  a  woman 
of  business. 

"  What  has  led  you  to  this  announcement,  Arthur  ?  "  she 
inquired. 

"  A  wish  to  do  justice  to  all  the  parties  to  whom  it  relates," 
I  replied. 

"  You  have  done  right,"  she  said,  "  and  of  course  you  have 
counted  the  cost.  If  my  grandson  comes  here,  you  will  not 
expect  to  stay.  Have  you  made  any  plans  ?  Have  you  any 
reward  to  ask  for  your  sacrifice  ?  I  trust  that  in  making  up 
your  mind  upon  this  point,  you  will  remember  what  I  have  done 
for  you.  You  will  find  my  expenses  on  your  account  in  a  book 
which  I  will  give  you." 

The  cool  cruelty  of  the  woman,  at  this  supreme  moment  of 
her  life,  angered  and  disgusted  me.  I  bit  my  lips  to  keep 
back  the  hot  words  that  pressed  for  utterance.  Then,  with  all 
the  calmness  I  could  command,  I  said  :  "  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  have  come  to  you  to-day  to  sell  your  grandson  to  you  for 
money  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  your  dollars  weigh  a  pin  with 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  335 

me?  Can't  you  realize  that  I  am  voluntarily  relinquishing  the 
hopes  and  expectations  of  a  lifetime  ?  Can't  you  see  that  I 
am  going  from  a  life  of  independence  to  one  of  labor  and 
struggle?" 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Arthur,"  she  responded  coolly.  "  I  have 
given  you  your  education,  and  taken  care  of  you  for  years.  I 
have  done  it  under  the  impression  that  I  had  no  heir.  You  tell 
me  that  I  have  one,  and  now  I  must  part  with  you.  You  foresaw 
this,  and  I  supposed  that  you  had  made  your  plans  for  it.  The 
simple  question  is,  how  much  do  you  want  in  consideration  of 
your  disappointment  ?  How  are  we  to  separate,  so  that  you 
shall  feel  satisfied  that  I  have  done  you  justice  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  stipulations  to  make,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  under 
stand  that  you  have  done  much  for  me,  and  that  I  have  done 
very  little  for  you,  indeed ;  that  I  have  very  poorly  improved 
the  privileges  you  have  bestowed  upon  me.  I  understand  that 
you  do  not  consider  yourself  under  the  slightest  obligation  to 
me,  and  that  so  soon  as  you  may  get  your  grandson  into  your 
possession,  through  my  means,  you  will  drop  me  and  be  glad  to 
be  rid  of  me  forever." 

"You  speak  bitterly,  Arthur.  I  shall  always  be  interested  in 
your  welfare,  and  shall  do  what  I  can  to  serve  you ;  but  when 
we  separate  we  must  be  quits.  You  know  my  mode  of  doing 
business.  I  exact  my  rights  and  pay  my  dues." 

"  I  have  no  bargains  to  make  with  you,  Mrs.  Sanderson,"  I 
said.  "  We  are  quits  now.  I  confess  that  I  have  had  a  dream 
of  travel.  I  have  hoped  to  go  away  after  this  change  in  my 
life,  and  to  forget  it  among  new  scenes,  and  prepare  myself  to 
take  up  and  bear  a  burden  for  which  my  life  here  has  done 
much  to  unfit  me.  I  have  dreamed  of  getting  away  from  Brad 
ford  for  a  time,  until  the  excitement  that  will  attend  these 
changes  shall  have  blown  over.  I  confess  that  I  shrink  from 
meeting  the  questions  and  sneers  that  await  me  ;  but  we  are 
quits  now." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  the  expenses  of  a  foreign  tour 
will  be  ?  "  she  inquired  in  a  cool,  calculating  tone. 


336  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Mrs.  Sanderson,  you  have  just  come  into  the  possession  of 
the  most  precious  knowledge  the  world  holds  for  you,  and 
through  it  you  expect  to  receive  the  great  boon  of  your  life. 
All  this  comes  through  me.  Neither  your  daughter-in-law  nor 
your  grandson  would  ever  have  made  themselves  known  to  you, 
and  now,  when  I  have  sacrificed  the  expectations  of  a  life  to 
them  and  to  you,  you  talk  about  the  price  of  a  foreign  trip  for 
me,  as  if  you  were  bargaining  for  a  horse.  No,  madam  ;  I 
wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  business,  and  it  is  better  for  us  both 
to  talk  no  more  about  this  matter.  We  are  quits  to-day.  I 
shall  feel  better  by  and  by,  but  you  have  disappointed  me  and 
made  me  very  unhappy." 

Even  while  I  talked,  I  could  see  her  face  harden  from 
moment  to  moment.  Her  heart  had  gone  out  toward  her  heir 
with  a  selfish  affection,  which  slowly,  quietly,  and  surely  shut  out 
every  other  human  being.  She  grudged  me  every  dollar  of  her 
fortune  on  his  behalf.  The  moment  she  ceased  to  regard  me  as 
her  heir,  I  stood  in  the  same  relation  to  her  that  any  other  poor 
young  man  in  Bradford  occupied.  Her  wealth  was  for  her  grand 
son.  She  would  pay  to  him,  on  his  father's  account,  every  dollar 
she  held.  She  would  lavish  upon  him  every  affection,  and  every 
service  possible.  She  would  offer  herself  and  her  possessions 
to  atone  for  wrongs  for  which  her  conscience  had  upbraided  her 
more  and  more,  as  her  life  had  approached  its  close.  She 
longed  for  this  consummation,  and  looked  to  it  for  peace. 

Thus  I  reached  the  moment  of  transition,  and  in  disappoint 
ment  and  bitterness — feeling  that  my  sacrifice  was  not  appre 
ciated,  and  that  my  benefactress  had  lost  all  affection  for  and 
interest  in  me — T  took  up  the  burden  of  my  own  life,  determined 
that  on  no  consideration  would  I  receive,  beyond  the  clothes  I 
wore,  one  dollar  more  of  the  fortune  on  which  I  had  lived. 

"  When  can  I  see  my  grandson  ?  " 

"  When  you  choose." 

"  To  day  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Brin:r  him  to  me." 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  337 

"  I  must  go  to  my  room  first,"  I  said. 

I  mounted  to  my  chamber,  and  threw  myself  into  my 
accustomed  chair  by  the  window.  I  had  passed  into  a  new 
world.  The  charming  things  about  me,  which  I  had  counted 
my  own,  were  another's.  The  old  house  and  the  broad,  beau 
tiful  acres  which  stretched  around  it  were  alienated  forever.  I 
realized  that  every  dollar  that  had  been  bestowed  upon  me, 
and  every  privilege,  service,  and  attention  I  had  received,  had 
come  from  a  supremely  selfish  heart,  through  motives  that  sought 
only  to  fill  an  empty  life,  and  to  associate  with  an  honored 
ancestral  name  the  wealth  which  could  not  be  taken  out  of  the 
world  with  its  possessor.  A  mercenary  value  had  been  placed 
upon  every  sentiment  of  gratitude  and  respect  and  love  which 
my  benefactress  had  inspired  in  me.  I  had  been  used  as  a 
thing  of  convenience,  and  being  a  thing  of  convenience  no 
longer,  I  was  dropped  as  a  burden.  I  was  humiliated,  shamed, 
angered  by  the  way  in  which  I  had  been  treated,  but  I  was 
cured.  The  gifts  that  I  had  received  looked  hateful  to  me.  The 
position  I  had  occupied — the  position  in  which  I  had  not 
only  grown  to  be  content,  but  in  which  I  had  nursed  and  devel 
oped  a  degree  of  aristocratic  pride — seemed  most  unmanly.  I 
had  been  used,  played  with,  petted,  fed  with  daily  indulgences 
and  great  promises,  and  then  cast  away,  there  being  no  further 
use  for  me. 

"  Never  again  !  "  I  said  to  myself — "  never  again  !  I  would 
not  take  another  dollar  from  this  estate  and  its  owner  to  keep 
myself  from  starving." 

The  dream  of  travel  was  shattered.  My  new  life  and  rela 
tions  were  squarely  before  me.  Where  and  what  I  should  be 
in  a  week  I  did  not  know.  What  old  friends  would  fall  away 
from  me,  what  new  friends  I  should  make,  how  I  should  earn 
the  bread  which  had  thus  far  been  supplied,  was  all  uncertain. 

I  believed,  however,  that  I  had  clone  my  duty;  and  out  of  all 

my  shame  and  disappointment  and  disgust  and  apprehension, 

there  rose  within  me  a  sentiment  of  self-respect  and  a  feeling 

of  strength.      And  when  I  thought  of  all  the  circumstances 

15 


338  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

that  had  conspired  to  bring  me  to  this  point,  I  could  not  doubt 
that  Providence — the  great  will  that  embraces  all  wills — the 
supreme  plan  that  subordinates  and  weaves  into  serviceable 
relations  all  plans — the  golden  fabric  that  unrolls  from  day  to 
day,  with  the  steady  revolutions  of  the  stars,  and  rolls  up  again, 
studded  thick  with  the  designs  of  men — had  ordered  everything, 
and  ordered  it  aright.  It  was  best  for  me  that  I  had  gone 
through  with  my  indulgences  and  my  discipline.  It  was  best 
for  me  that  I  had  passed  through  the  peculiar  experiences  of 
my  life.  It  was  best  for  Mrs.  Sanderson  that  she  had  been 
tormented,  and  that,  at  last,  she  was  passing  into  the  hands  that 
were  strong  and  steady — hands  that  would  lead  her  aright — 
hands  into  which  she  was  ready  to  throw  herself,  with  self-aban 
doning  love  and  trust.  It  was  best  that  Henry  had  struggled 
and  learned  the  worth  of  money,  and  acquired  sympathy  and 
respect  for  the  poor.  It  was  best  that  the  feet  of  all  the  per 
sons  concerned  in  this  great  change  of  relations  should  be 
brought  together  at  last,  by  a  series  of  coincidences  that 
seemed  well-nigh  miraculous. 

One  thing  struck  me  as  being  very  singular,  viz. :  that  Mrs. 
Sanderson  was  so  easily  satisfied  that  she  had  a  grandson,  and 
that  I  not  only  knew  him,  but  that  he  was  close  at  hand.  It 
only  showed  how  eagerly  ready  she  was  to  believe  it,  and  to 
believe  that  I  had  prepared  everything  to  satisfy  her  desire. 
In  another  frame  of  mind — if  another  frame  of  mind  had  been, 
possible — she  would  have  questioned  me — doubted  me — put 
me  to  the  proof  of  my  statements;  but  she  was  ready  to 
accept  anything  on  my  simple  assurance.  After  sitting  quietly 
for  an  hour,  I  rose  with  a  long  sigh.  I  had  still  the  duty  of 
presenting  Henry  Sanderson — for  that  was  his  real  name — to 
his  grandmother.  My  heart  throbbed  wildly  every  time*the 
thought  of  this  meeting  came  to  me.  I  had  said  nothing  to 
Henry,  for  I  knew  that  it  would  distress  him  beyond  measure, 
— nay,  that,  disabled  as  he  was,  he  would  contrive  some  way 
to  get  out  of  the  house  and  out  of  the  town.  Nothing  but  a 
sense  of  freedom  from  detection  and  discovery  had  ever  recon- 


Arttmr  Bonnicastle.  339 

ciled  him  and  his  mother  to  an  hour's  residence  in  The  Mansion. 
Hidden  away  in  this  New  England  town,  toward  which  they  had 
drifted  from  the  far  South,  partly  on  the  current  of  circumstan 
ces,  and  partly  by  the  force  of  a  desire  to  see  and  know  the 
early  home  and  associations  of  the  husband  and  father,  they 
did  not  doubt  that  they  could  cover  their  identity  so  perfectly 
that  it  would  not  be  suspected.  Henry  had  studiously  kept 
away  from  the  house.  His  mother  had  met  Mrs.  Sanderson 
entirely  by  accident,  and  had  taken  a  sweet  and  self-amusing 
revenge  by  compelling  her  to  love  and  trust  her.  They  had 
confided  their  secret  to  but  one  man,  and  he  had  had  their 
permission  to  confide  it  to  his  family.  Through  all  these  long 
years,  the  two  families  had  been  intimate  friends,  and  Mr.  Brad 
ford  had  endeavored  in  every  possible  way  to  obtain  their  con 
sent  to  the  course  he  had  pursued,  but  in  vain.  After  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Sanderson,  he  would  doubtless  have  informed 
me  of  Henry's  natural  claims  to  the  estate,  relying  upon  my 
sense  of  justice  and  my  love  for  him  for  its  division  between 
us ;  but  he  saw  that  my  prospects  were  ruining  me,  and  so  had 
taken  the  matter  into  his  own  hands,  simply  confiding  the  facts 
of  the  case  to  my  father  and  Mr.  Bird,  and  acting  with  their 
advice  and  consent. 

I  drew  out  my  trunk,  and  carefully  packed  my  clothing.  Not 
an  article  in  the  room  that  was  not  necessary  to  me  did  I  take 
from  its  place.  It  would  be  Henry's  room,  and  all  the  choice 
ornaments  and  appointments  that  I  had  had  the  happy  pains  to 
gather,  were  left  to  please  his  eye  and  remind  him  of  me.  The 
occupation,  while  it  pained  me,  gave  me  strength  and  calmness. 
When  the  work  was  done,  I  locked  my  trunk,  put  the  key  in 
my  pocket,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room  when  there  came 
to  me  the  sense  of  a  smile  from  the  skies.  A  cloud  had  been 
over  the  sun,  and  as  it  passed  a  flood  of  sunlight  filled  the  room, 
growing  stronger  and  stronger  until  my  eyes  were  almost  blinded 
by  the  sweet  effulgence.  I  was  not  superstitious,  but  it  seemed 
as  if  God  had  given  me  His  benediction. 

I  turned  the  key  in  my  door,  and  bowed  at  my  bed.    "  Dear 


340  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Father,"  I  said,  "  at  last  nothing  stands  between  Thee  and  me. 
That  which  I  have  loved  better  than  Thee  is  gone,  and  now  I 
beg  Thee  to  help  me  and  lead  me  in  Thine  own  way  to  Thyself. 
I  shrink  from  the  world,  but  Thou  hast  made  it.  I  shrink  from 
toil  and  struggle,  but  Thou  hast  ordained  them.  Help  me  to 
be  a  man  after  Thine  own  heart.  Give  me  wisdom,  guidance, 
and  assistance.  Help  me  to  lay  aside  my  selfishness,  my  love 
of  luxury  and  ease,  and  to  go  down  heartily  into  the  work  of 
the  world,  and  to  build  my  life  upon  sure  foundations." 

Then  there  rose  in  me  a  flood  of  pity  and  charity  for  one 
who  had  so  long  been  my  benefactress  ;  and  I  .prayed  for  her — 
that  in  her  new  relations  she  might  be  blessed  with  content  and 
satisfaction,  and  that  her  last  days  might  be  filled  with  some 
thing  better  than  she  had  known.  I  forgave  her  for  her  quick 
and  complete  renunciation  of  myself,  and  the  cruel  wounds  she 
had  inflicted  upon  my  pride,  and  felt  the  old  good-will  of  child 
hood  welling  in  my  heart.  I  enveloped  her  with  my  charity.  I 
crowned  her  with  the  grace  of  pardon. 

When  I  went  down  stairs  I  found  her  awaiting  me  in  the  room 
where  I  had  left  her.  She  sat  holding  a  paper  in  her  hand.  She 
had  dressed  herself  in  her  best,  as  if  she  were  about  to  receive 
a  prince.  There  was  a  bright  spot  of  red  on  either  thin  and 
wrinkled  cheek,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  fire. 

"  You  are  sure  you  have  made  no  mistake,  Arthur?"  she 
said,  with  a  voice  quite  unnatural  in  its  quavering  sharpness. 

"  Quite  sure,"  I  answered. 

"  This,"  said  she,  holding  up  her  paper,  "  is  my  will.  There 
is  no  will  of  mine  beside  this  in  existence.  I  have  no  time  to 
ask  my  lawyer  here  to-day  to  make  another.  Life  is  uncertain, 
and  there  must  be  no  mistake.  I  wish  you  to  go  with  me  to 
the  kitchen." 

She  rose  and  I  followed  her  out.  I  could  not  imagine  what 
she  would  do,  but  she  went  straight  to  the  old-fashioned  fire 
place,  where  the  dinner  was  cooking,  and  holding  the  paper  in 
her  hands,  opened  it,  and  asked  me  to  read  the  beginning  of  it 
and  the  signatures.  I  did  so,  and  then  she  laid  it  upon  the 


Arthur  Bonnicastlc.  341 

coals.  The  quick  flame  shot  up,  and  we  both  looked  on  in 
silence,  until  nothing  was  left  of  it  but  white  ashes,  which  a 
breath  would  scatter.  The  elements  had  swallowed  all  my  claim 
to  her  large  estate.  The  old  cook  regarded  us  in  wondering 
silence,  with  her  hands  upon  her  hips,  and  watched  us  as  we 
turned  away  from  the  fire,  and  left  her  alone  in  her  domain. 

When  we  returned  to  the  library,  Mrs.  Sanderson  said  :  "  The 
burning  of  that  will  is  equivalent  to  writing  another  in  favor  of 
my  grandson ;  so,  if  I  make  no  other,  you  will  know  the  rea 
son." 

She  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart  in  a  distressed  way,  and 
added  ;  "  I  am  as  nearly  ready  as  I  ever  can  be  to  see—" 

"  Henry  Sanderson,"  I  said. 

"Is  that  his  name?  Is  that  his  real  name?"  she  asked, 
eagerly. 

"It  is." 

"  And  it  will  all  go  to  Henry  Sanderson  !  " 

The  intense,  triumphant  satisfaction  with  which  she  said  this 
was  almost  enough,  of  itself,  to  repay  me  for  the  sacrifice  I 
had  made. 

"Mrs.  Sanderson,"  I  said,  "I  have  put  into  my  trunk  the 
clothes  I  need,  and  when  I  go  away  I  will  send  for  them.  I 
have  left  everything  else." 

"  For  Henry — -my  Henry  Sanderson  ! " 

"Yes,  for  your  Henry  ;  and  now  I  must  go  up  and  see  my 
Henry,  and  Mrs.  Belden  ;  for  after  I  have  presented  your  grand 
son  to  you  I  shall  go  away." 

I  mounted  the  stairs  with  a  throbbing  heart,  and  a  face  that 
told  the  tale  of  a  terrible  excitement  and  trouble.  Both  Henry 
and  his  mother  started  as  I  came  into  the  room,  and  simultane 
ously  uttered  the  words,  "What  is  it,  Arthur?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  my  aunt  and  I  have  had  a  talk,  and  I 
am  going  away." 

A  quick,  involuntary  glance  passed  between  the  pair,  but 
both  waited  to  hear  my  announcement. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  here,"  I  said.     "You  can  stay  as  long 


3 4 2  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

as  you  wish,  but  I  am  going  away.  I  shall  see  you  again,  but 
never  as  an  inmate  of  this  house.  I  want  to  thank  you  for  all 
your  kindness  and  love,  and  to  assure  you  that  I  shall  always 
remember  you.  Mrs.  Belden,  you  never  kissed  me  :  kiss  me 
now." 

The  dear  woman  looked  scared,  but  obeyed  my  wish.  I  sat 
down  on  Henry's  bed  and  laid  my  head  beside  his.  "  Good- 
by,  old  boy;  good-by!  Thank  you  for  all  your  faithfulness  to 
me  and  for  your  example.  I  hope  some  time  to  be  half  as 
good  as  you  are." 

My  eyes  were  flooded  with  tears,  and  both  Mrs.  Belden  and 
Henry  were  weeping  in  sympathy. 

"  What  is  it,  Arthur  ?  what  is  it  ?  Tell  us.  Perhaps  we  can 
help  you." 

"Whatever  it  is,  it  is  all  right,"  I  answered.  "Some  time 
you  will  know,  and  you  will  find  that  I  am  not  to  blame." 

Then  I  shook  their  hands,  went  abruptly  out  of  the  room, 
and  ran  down  stairs  to  Mrs.  Sanderson.  She  saw  that  I  was 
strangely  agitated,  and  rose  feebly  as  I  entered. 

"  I  wish  you  to  go  up  stairs  with  me  before  I  leave,"  I  said. 
"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  go  with  me  now  ?  " 

There  was  no  dawning  suspicion  in  her  heart  of  what  I 
had  prepared  for  her.  She  had  expected  me  to  go  out  and 
bring  in  a  stately  stranger  for  whose  reception  she  had  pre 
pared  her  toilet.  She  had  wondered  how  he  would  look,  and 
by  what  terms  she  should  address  him. 

I  gave  her  my  arm  and  we  slowly  walked  up  the  stairs  to 
gether,  while  my  heart  was  beating  so  heavily  that  I  could  hear 
it,  blow  upon  blow,  in  my  ears.  I  knocked  at  Henry's  door 
and  entered.  The  moment  Henry  and  his  mother  saw  us  to 
gether,  and  caught  the  agitated  look  that  both  of  us  wore,  they 
anticipated  the  announcement  that  was  imminent,  and  grew 
pale  as  ghosts. 

"  Mrs.  Sanderson,"  I  said,  without  offering  her  a  seat,  "  this 
is  Mrs.  Belden  Hulm,  your  daughter-in-law,  and  this  (turning 


ArtJiur  Bonnicastle.  343 

to  Henry)  is  your  grandson,  Henry  Sanderson.  May  God 
bless  you  all !  " 

I  dropped  her  arm  and  rushed  to  the  door.  A  hurried 
glance  behind  me  showed  that  she  was  staggering  and  falling. 
Turning  swiftly  back,  I  caught  her,  while  Mrs.  Hulm  supported 
her  upon  the  other  side,  and  together  we  led  her  to  Henry's 
bed.  Then  she  dropped  upon  her  knees  and  lienry  threw  his 
arms  around  her  neck,  and  said  softly  :  "  Grandmother  !" 

"My  boy,  my  boy!"  was  all  she  could  say,  and  it  was 
enough. 

Then  I  left  them.  I  heard  Henry  say  :  "  Don't  go,"  but  I 
did  not  heed  him.  Running  down  stairs,  with  limbs  so  weak 
with  excitement  that  I  could  hardly  stand,  I  seized  my  hat 
in  the  hall,  and  went  out  of  doors,  and  hurriedly  took  my 
way  toward  my  father's  house.  I  did  not  even  cast  a  glance 
at  the  Bradford  residence,  so  absorbed  was  1  in  the  events 
in  which  I  had  been  an  actor.  The  vision  of  the  three 
persons  clustered  at  Henry's  bed,  the  thought  of  the  powerful 
emotions  that  were  surging  in  them  all,  the  explanations  that 
were  pouring  from  Henry's  lips,  the  prayers  for  forgiveness  that 
my  old  benefactress  was  uttering,  and  the  dreams  of  the  new 
life  of  The  Mansion  which  I  had  inaugurated  blotted  out  the 
sense  of  my  own  sacrifice,  and  made  me  oblivious  to  all  around 
me.  Men  spoke  to  me  on  the  street,  and  I  remembered  after 
wards  that  I  did  not  answer  them.  I  walked  in  a  dream,  and 
was  at  my  father's  door  before  I  was  aware.  I  felt  that  I  was 
not  ready  to  go  in,  so  I  turned  away  and  continued  my  walk. 
Up  the  long  streets  I  went,  wrapped  in  my  dream.  Down 
through  the  busy  life  along  the  wharves  I  wandered,  and  looked 
out  upon  the  water.  The  sailors  were  singing,  children  were 
playing,  apple-women  were  chaffing,  but  nothing  could  divert 
me.  My  heart  was  in  the  room  I  had  left.  The  scene  was 
burnt  indelibly  upon  my  memory,  and  no  new  impression  could 
take  its  place. 

Slowly  I  turned  toward  home  again.  I  had  mastered  myself 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  think  of  my  future,  and  of  the  necessi- 


344  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

ties  and  proprieties  of  my  new  position.  When  I  reached  my 
father's  house,  I  found  Mrs.  Sanderson's  man-servant — old 
Jenks's  successor — waiting  at  the  gate  with  a  message  from 
Henry,  desiring  my  immediate  return  to  The  Mansion,  and  re 
questing  that  I  bring  with  me  my  sister  Claire.  This  latter 
request  was  one  that  brought  me  to  myself.  I  had  now  the 
responsibility  of  leading  another  through  a  great  and  unantici 
pated  excitement.  Dismissing  the  servant,  with  a  promise  to 
obey  his  new  master's  wish,  I  went  into  the  house,  and  found 
myself  so  much  in  self-possession  that  I  told  Claire  with  calm 
ness  of  the  message,  and  refrained  from  all  allusion  to  what  had 
occurred.  Claire  dressed  herself  quickly,  and  I  could  see  as 
she  presented  herself  for  the  walk  that  she  was  full  of  wonder. 
Nothing  was  said  as  we  passed  out.  There  was  a  strange 
silence  in  the  family.  The  message  meant  a  great  deal,  and 
all  so  thoroughly  trusted  Henry  that  no  questions  were  asked. 

When  we  were  away  from  the  house,  I  said  :  "  Claire,  you 
must  be  a  woman  to-day.  Strange  things  have  happened. 
Brace  yourself  for  anything  that  may  come." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  Has  anything  happened  to — to 
him  ?  " 

"Yes,  much, — much  to  him,  and  much  to  me  ;  and  some 
thing  very  strange  and  unexpected  will  happen  to  you." 

She  stopped  short  in  the  street,  and  grasping  my  two  hands 
nervously,  exclaimed  :  "  Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  "  my  life  at  Mrs.  Sanderson's  has  ceased. 
I  am  no  more  her  heir,  for  Henry  is  discovered  to  be  her  own 
grandson." 

"  You  deceive  me  ;  you  can't  mean  it." 

"  It  is  just  as  I  tell  you." 

She  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping  so  passionate  and  uncontrol 
lable  that  in  a  low  voice  I  said,  "  You  must  command  your 
self.  You  are  observed." 

We  resumed  our  walk,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  she 
could  speak.  At  length  she  said,  "  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  and 
so  sorry  for  myself.  I  do  not  want  it  so.  It  changes  all  my 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  345 

plans.  I  never  can  be  to  him  what  I  could  be  if  he  were  poor ; 
and  you  are  to  work.  Did  he  know  he  was  her  grandson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  always  known  it." 

"  And  he  never  told  me  a  word  about  it.  How  could  he 
treat  me  so  like  a  child  ?  " 

She  was  half  angry  with  the  thought  that  he  had  shut  from 
her  the  most  important  secret  of  his  life.  As  to  the  fortune 
which  was  opened  to  her,  it  did  not  present  to  her  a  single 
charm.  The  thought  of  it  oppressed  and  distressed  her.  It 
made  her  life  so  large  that  she  could  not  comprehend  it.  She 
had  had  no  natural  growth  up  to  it  and  into  it. 

When  we  reached  The  Mansion  she  was  calm  ;  and  it  seemed, 
as  we  stood  at  the  door  and  I  looked  inquiringly  into  her  face, 
as  if  her  beauty  had  taken  on  a  maturer  charm  while  we  had 
walked.  I  led  her  directly  to  Henry's  room,  and  there,  in  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Sanderson,  who  sat  holding  Henry's  hand  as 
if  she  were  determined  that  her  newly-found  treasure  should 
not  escape  her,  and  in  the  presence  of  Henry's  mother,  neither 
of  whom  she  either  addressed  or  regarded,  she  stooped  and  re 
ceived  her  lover's  kiss.  I  saw  simply  this,  and  with  tears  in 
my  eyes  went  out  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  me.  What 
occurred  during  that  interview  I  never  knew.  It  was  an  inter 
view  so  tenderly  sacred  that  neither  Henry  nor  Claire  ever  al 
luded  to  it  afterwards.  I  went  down  stairs,  and  awaited  its 
conclusion.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  I  heard  voices  whis 
pering  above,  then  the  footsteps  of  Mrs.  Sanderson  going  to 
her  chamber,  and  then  the  rustle  of  dresses  upon  the  stairs. 
I  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  met  Mrs.  Hulm  and  Claire  with 
their  arms  around  each  other.  Their  eyes  were  wet,  but  they 
were  luminous  with  a  new  happiness,  and  I  knew  that  all  had 
been  settled,  and  settled  aright. 

"  Henry  wishes  to  see  you,"  said  his  mother. 

I  cannot  tell  how  much  I  dreaded  this  interview.  I  knew 
of  course  that  it  would  come,  sooner  or  later,  and  I  dreaded  it 
as  much  on  Henry's  account  as  on  my  own. 

I  sat  down  by  his  bed,  and  gave  to  his  eager  grasp  both 
15* 


346  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

my  hands.  He  looked  at  me  with  tears  rolling  down  his 
cheeks,  with  lips  compressed  and  with  the  perspiration  standing 
unbrushed  from  his  forehead,  but  without  the  power  to  speak  a 
word.  I  pulled  out  my  handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  forehead 
and  his  cheeks. 

"Are  you  happy,  Henry?"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  thank  God  and  you,"  he  answered,  with  choking  emo 
tion. 

"  So  am  I." 

"Are  you?  Are  you?  Oh  Arthur!  What  can  I  ever  do 
to  show  you  my  gratitude  ?  How  can  I  look  on  and  see  you 
toiling  to  win  the  bread  you  have  voluntarily  given  to  me?  " 

"  You  have  had  your  hard  time,  and  I  my  easy  one.  Now 
we  are  to  change  places,  that's  all,  and  it  is  right.  You  have 
learned  the  value  of  money,  and  you  will  spend  this  which  has 
come  to  you  as  it  ought  to  be  spent." 

"  But  it  is  not  the  money  ;  it  is  the  home  of  my  father — the 
home  of  my  ancestors.  It  is  a  home  for  my  mother.  It  is 
rest  from  uncertain  wandering.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is. 
It  is  something  so  precious  that  money  cannot  represent  it.  It 
is  something  so  precious  that  I  would  willingly  work  harder  all 
my  life  for  having  found  it.  And  now,  my  dear  fellow,  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing — only  love  me." 

"  But  I  must  do  more.  Your  home  must  be  here.  You 
must  share  it  with  me." 

"  No,  Henry,  the  word  is  spoken.  You  have  come  to  your 
o\vn,  and  I  shall  go  to  mine.  My  lot  shall  be  my  father's  lot, 
until  I  can  make  it  better.  We  shall  be  friends  forever.  The 
surrender  I  have  made  shall  do  me  more  good  than  it  has  done 
you.  You  did  not  absolutely  need  it,  and  I  did.  You  could 
do  without  it  and  I  could  not.  And  now,  let's  not  talk  about 
it  any  more." 

We  embraced  and  kissed  as  if  we  had  been  lovers,  and  I  left 
him,  to  walk  back  with  Claire.  That  night  the  story  was  all 
told  in  our  little  home.  My  trunk  was  brought  and  carried  to 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  .347 

my  bare  and  cramped  chamber;  and  when  the  accustomed 
early  hour  for  retirement  came  I  knelt  with  the  other  children 
and  worshipped  as  of  old.  My  father  was  happy,  my  mother 
was  reconciled  to  the  change,  for  Claire  had  been  recognized 
at  The  Mansion,  and  I  went  to  bed  and  rested  through  a  dream 
less  sleep  until  the  morning  light  summoned  me  to  new  changes 
and  new  duties. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

I  TAKE   ARTHUR   BONNICASTLE   UPON   MY  OWN   HANDS  AND  SUC 
CEED  WITH  HIM. 

IN  a  small  town  like  Bradford,  the  birds  have  a  way  of  collect 
ing  and  carrying  news,  quite  unknown  in  more  considerable 
cities  ;  and,  apparently,  a  large  flock  of  them  had  been  around 
The  Mansion  during  the  events  narrated  in  the  preceding 
chapter ;  for,  on  the  following  day,  the  community  was  alive 
with  rumors  concerning  them.  A  daily  paper  had  just  been 
established,  whose  enterprising  editor  deemed  it  his  special  duty 
and  privilege  to  bruit  such  personal  and  social  intelligence  as 
he  could  gain  by  button-holing  his  victims  on  the  street,  or  by 
listening  to  the  voluntary  tattle  of  busy-bodies.  My  good  angel, 
Mr.  Bradford, "apprehending  an  unpleasant  notoriety  for  me, 
and  for  the  occurrences  associated  with  my  name,  came  to  me 
at  once  and  heard  my  story.  Then  he  visited  the  editor,  and 
so  represented  the  case  to  him  that,  on  the  second  morning 
after  taking  up  my  home  with  my  father,  I  had  the  amusement 
of  reading  a  whole  column  devoted  to  it.  The  paper  was  very 
wet  and  very  dirty  ;  and  I  presume  that  that  column  was  read 
with  more  interest,  by  all  the  citizens  of  Bradford,  than  anything 
of  national  import  which  it  might  have  contained.  I  will  re 
produce  only  its  opening  and  closing  paragraphs  : 

ROMANCE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. — Our  little  city  was  thrown  into  intense  excite 
ment  yesterday,  by  rumors  of  a  most  romantic  and  extraordinary  character, 
concerning  occurrences  at 

A  CERTAIN    MANSION, 

which  occupies  an  elevated  position,  locally,  socially,  and  historically.      It 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  349 

appears  that  a  certain  estimable  young  man,  whose  heroic  feat  cost  him  so 
dearly  in  a  recent  struggle  with 

A  MIDNIGHT  ASSASSIN, 

is  the  natural  heir  to  the  vast  wealth  which  he  so  gallantly  rescued  from  spol 
iation,  and  that 

A  CERTAIN  ESTIMABLE  LADY, 

well  known  to  our  citizens  as  the  companion  of  a  certain  other  lady,  also 
well  known,  is  his  mother.  Nothing  more  startling  than  the  developments 
in  this  case  has  occurred  in  the  eventful  history  of  our  city. 

A  MYSTERY 

has  always  hung  around  these  persons,  and  we  are  not  among  those  who 
are  surprised  at  the  solution.  But  the  most  remarkable  part  of  the  story 
is  that  which  relates  to  the  young  man  who  has  been  reared  with  the  expec 
tation  of  becoming  the  owner  of  this  magnificent  estate.  Upon  learning  the 
relations  of  the  young  man  previously  alluded  to,  to  his  benefactress,  he  at 
once,  in  loyalty  to  his  friend  and  his  own  personal  honor,  renounced  for 
ever  his  expectations,  surrendered  his  position  to  the  heir  so  strangely  dis 
covered,  and  took  up  his  abode  in  his  father's  humble  home.  This  act,  than 
which  none  nobler  was  ever  performed,  was,  we  are  assured  by  as  good  au 
thority  as  there  is  in  Bradford,  wholly  voluntary. 

WE  GIVE  THAT  YOUNG   MAN   OUR  HAT— 

Miller  &  Sons'  best — and  assure  him  that,  in  whatever  position  he  may 
choose  to  take  in  this  community,  he  will  have  such  support  as  our  humble 
editorial  pen  may  give  him.  We  feel  that  no  less  than  this  is  due  to  his 
nobility  of  character. 

After  half  a  dozen  paragraphs  in  this  strain,  the  article  closed 
as  follows  : — 

It  is  rumored  that  the  newly-found  heir  has  formed 

A  TENDER   ALLIANCE 

with  a  beautiful  young  lady — a  blonde — who  is  not  a  stranger  in  the 
family  of  our  blue-eyed  hero — an  alliance  which  will  enable  her  to 

SHARE   HIS   BONNY   CASTLE, 

and  unite  the  fortunes  of  the  two  families  in  indissoluble  bonds.  Long 
may  they  wave  1 


350  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

Far  be  it  from  us,  enthroned  upon  the  editorial  tripod,  and  wielding  the 
scepter  of  the  press,  to  invade  the  sanctities  of  private  life,  and  we  there 
fore  withhold  all  names.  It  was  due  to  the  parties  concerned  and  to  the 
public,  however,  to  state  the  facts,  and  put  an  end  to  gossip  and  conjecture 
among  those  who  have  no  better  business  than  that  of  tampering  with  the 
secrets  of  the  hearthstone  and  the  heart. 

During  the  clay,  I  broke  through  the  reluctance  which  I  nat 
urally  felt  to  encounter  the  public  gaze,  after  this  exposure  of 
my  affairs,  and  went  out  upon  the  street.  Of  course,  I  found 
myself  the  object  of  universal  curiosity  and  the  subject  of  uni 
versal  remark.  Never  in  my  life  had  I  been  treated  with  more 
deference.  Something  high  in  position  had  been  won  back  to 
the  sphere  of  common  life ;  and  common  life  was  profoundly 
interested.  My  editorial  friend  had  so  represented  the  case 
as  to  win  for  me  something  better  than  sympathy  ;  and  a  good- 
natured  reticence  under  all  inquiries,  on  my  own  part,  seemed 
to  enhance  the  respect  of  the  people  for  me.  But  I  had  some- 
tiling  more  important  on  hand  than  seeking  food  for  my  van 
ity.  I  had  myself  on  hand  and  my  future  ;  and  the  gossip  of 
the  community  was,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a  matter  of  in 
difference. 

It  occurred  to  me  during  the  day  that  an  academy,  which  a 
number  of  enterprising  people  had  built  two  or  three  years  be 
fore,  had  been  abandoned  and  closed,  with  the  conclusion  of 
the  spring  term,  for  lack  of  support,  and  that  it  would  be  pos 
sible  for  me  to  secure  it  for  the  field  of  my  future  enterprise. 
I  called  at  once  upon  those  who  held  the  building  in  charge, 
and,  before  I  slept,  closed  a  bargain,  very  advantageous  to  my 
self,  which  placed  it  at  my  disposal  for  a  term  of  three  years. 
The  next  day  I  visited  my  friend  the  editor,  whom  I  found  with 
bare  arms,  well  smeared  with  ink,  at  work  at  his  printer's  case, 
setting  up  the  lucubrations  of  the  previous  night.  He  was 
evidently  flattered  by  my  call,  and  expressed  the  hope  that 
what  he  had  written  with  reference  to  myself  was  satisfactory. 
Assuring  him  that  I  had  no  fault  to  find  with  him,  I  exposed 
my  project,  which  not  only  met  with  his  hearty  approval,  but 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  351 

the  promise  of  his  unstinted  support.  From  his  office  I  went 
directly  to  the  chambers  of  the  principal  lawyer  of  the  city,  and 
entered  my  name  as  a  student  of  law.  I  took  no  advice,  I 
sought  no  aid,  but  spoke  freely  of  my  plans  to  all  around  inc. 
I  realized  almost  at  once  how  all  life  and  circumstance  bend 
to  the  man  who  walks  his  own  determined  way,  toward  an  ob 
ject  definitely  apprehended.  People  were  surprised  by  my 
promptness  and  energy,  and  indeed  I  was  surprised  by  myself. 
My  dreams  of  luxury  and  ease  were  gone,  and  the  fascinations 
of  enterprise  and  action  took  strong  possession  of  me.  I  was 
busy  with  my  preparations  for  school  and  with  study  all  day, 
and  at  night,  every  moment  stolen  from  sleep  was  filled  with 
planning  and  projecting.  My  father  was  delighted,  and  almost 
lived  and  moved  and  had  his  being  in  me.  To  him  I  told 
everything;  and  the  full  measure  of  his  old  faith  in  me  was  re 
covered. 

When  the  autumn  term  of  the  academy  opened,  of  which  I 
was  principal,  and  my  sister  Claire  the  leading  assistant,  every 
seat  was  full.  Many  of  the  pupils  had  come  from  the  towns 
around,  though  the  principal  attendance  was  from  the  city,  and 
I  entered  at  once  upon  a  life  of  the  most  fatiguing  labor  and 
the  most  grateful  prosperity.  My  purse  was  filled  at  the  out 
set  with  the  advanced  installment  upon  the  term-bills,  so  that 
both  Claire  and  myself  had  a  delightful  struggle  with  my  father 
in  our  attempt  to  compel  him  to  receive  payment  for  our 
board  and  lodgings.  Our  little  dwelling  was  full  of  new  life. 
Even  my  mother  was  shaken  from  her  refuge  of  faithlessness, 
and  compelled  to  smile.  Since  those  days  I  have  had  many 
pleasant  experiences ;  but  I  doubt  whether  I  have  ever  spent 
three  years  of  purer  happiness  than  those  which  I  passed  with 
Claire  beneath  the  roof  of  that  old  academy — old,  now,  for 
though  put  to  strange  uses,  the  building  is  standing  still. 

There  was  one  experience  connected  with  this  part  of  my 
history  of  which  it  is  a  pain  to  speak,  because  it  relates  to  the 
most  subtle  and  sacred  passage  of  my  inner  life  ;  but  having 
led  the  reader  thus  far,  I  should  be  disloyal  to  my  Christian 


352  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

confession  were  I  to  close  my  lips  upon  it  and  refuse  its  revela 
tion. 

From  the  hour  when  I  first  openly  joined  a  band  of  Chris 
tian  disciples,  I  had  been  conscious  of  a  mighty  arm  around  me. 
Within  the  circuit  of  that  restraining  power  I  had  exercised  an 
almost  unrestricted  liberty.  I  had  violated  my  conscience  in 
times  and  ways  without  number,  yet,  when  tempted  to  reckless 
wandering,  I  had  touched  the  obstacle  and  recoiled.  In  what 
ever  direction  I  might  go,  I  always  reached  a  point  where  I 
became  conscious  of  its  living  pulsations  and  its  unrelaxing  em 
brace.  Unseen,  impalpable,  it  was  as  impenetrable  as  ada 
mant  and  as  strong  as  God.  The  moment  I  assumed  respon 
sibility  over  other  lives,  and  gave  my  own  life  in  counsel  and 
labor  for  the  good  of  those  around  me,  the  arm  came  closer, 
and  conveyed  to  me  the  impression  of  comfort  and  health  and 
safety.  I  thanked  God  for  the  restraint  which  that  voluntary 
act  of  mine  had  imposed  upon  me. 

But  this  was  not  all.  My  life  had  come  into  the  line  of 
the  divine  plan  for  my  own  Christian  development.  I  had 
been  a  recipient  all  my  life  ;  now  I  had  become  an  active 
power.  I  had  all  my  life  been  appropriating  the  food  that  came 
to  me,  and  amusing  myself  with  the  playthings  of  fancy  and 
imagination  ;  now  I  had  begun  to  act  and  expend  in  earnest 
work  for  worthy  objects.  The  spiritual  attitude  effected  by 
this  change  was  one  which  brought  me  face  to  face  with  all  that 
was  unworthy  in  me  and  my  past  life,  and  I  felt  myself  under 
the  operations  of  a  mighty  regenerating  power,  which  I  had 
no  disposition  to  resist.  I  could  not  tell  whence  it  came  or 
whither  it  went.  If  it  was  born  of  myself,  it  was  a  psycholog 
ical  experience  which  I  could  neither  analyze  nor  measure.  It 
was  upon  me  for  days  and  weeks.  It  was  within  me  like 
leaven  in  the  lump,  permeating,  enlivening,  lifting  me.  It  was 
like  an  eye-stone  in  the  eye,  searching  for  dust  in  every  place 
and  plication,  and  removing  it,  until  the  orb  was  painless 
and  the  vision  pure.  There  was  no  outcry,  no  horror  of  great 
darkness,  no  disposition  to  publish,  but  a  subtle,  silent,  sweet 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  353 

revolution.  As  it  went  on  within  me,  I  grew  stronger  day  by 
day,  and  my  life  and  work  were  flooded  with  the  light  of  a 
great  and  fine  significance.  Sensibility  softened  and  endurance 
hardened  under  it. 

Spirit  of  God  !  Infinite  Mother  !  Thou  didst  not  thunder 
on  Sinai  amidst  smoke  and  tempest ;  but  in  the  burning  bush 
thou  didst  appear  in  a  flame  that  warmed  without  withering, 
and  illuminated  without  consuming.  Thou  didst  not  hang 
upon  the  cross  on  Calvary,  but  thou  didst  stir  the  hearts  of  the 
bereaved  disciples  as  they  walked  in  the  way  with  their  risen 
Lord.  All  gentle  ministries  to  the  spiritual  life  of  men  emanate 
from  Thee.  Thou  brooding,  all-pervading  presence,  holding  a 
weeping  world  in  thy  maternal  embrace,  with  counsel  and  ten 
der  chastening  and  holy  inspirations,  was  it  thy  arms  that  had 
been  around  me  all  these  years,  and  came  closer  and  closer, 
until  I  felt  myself  folded  to  a  heart  that  flooded  me  with  love  ? 
I  only  know  that  streams  rise  no  higher  than  their  fountain, 
and  that  the  fountain  of  spiritual  life  in  me  had  sunk  and  ceased 
to  flow  long  before  this  time.  Could  anything  but  a  long, 
strong  rain  from  the  skies  have  filled  it  ?  All  the  things  we  see  are 
types  of  things  we  do  not  see — visible  expressions  of  the  things 
and  thoughts  of  God.  All  the  phenomena  of  nature — the  persist 
ent  radiance  of  the  sun  and  moon — the  coining,  going,  and  unload 
ing,  and  the  grace  and  glory  of  the  clouds — the  changes  of  the 
seasons  and  of  the  all-enveloping  atmosphere,  are  revelations 
to  our  senses  and  our  souls  of  those  operations  and  influences 
_which  act  upon  our  spiritual  natures.  I  find  no  miracle  in  this  ; 
only  nature  speaking  without  material  interpreters — only  the 
God  of  nature  shunning  the  coarser  passages  of  the  senses,  and 
finding  his  way  direct  to  the  Spirit  by  means  and  ministries  and 
channels  of  his  own. 

Was  this  conversion  ?  It  was  not  an  intellectual  matter  at 
all.  I  had  changed  no  opinions,  for  the  unworthy  opinions  I 
had  acquired  had  fallen  from  me,  one  by  one,  as  my  practics 
had  conformed  more  and  more  to  the  Christian  standard.  In 
deed,  they  were  not  my  opinions  at  all,  for  they  had  been 


354  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

assumed  in  consequence  of  the  necessity  of  somewhat  bringing 
my  spiritual  and  intellectual  natures  into  harmony.  My  deep 
est  intellectual  convictions  remained  precisely  what  they  had 
always  been.  No,  it  was  a  spiritual  quickening.  It  had  been 
winter  with  me,  and  I  had  been  covered  with  snow  and  locked 
with  ice.  Did  I  melt  the  bonds  which  held  me,  by  warmth 
self-generated  ?  Does  the  rose  do  this  or  the  violet  ?  There 
was  a  sun  in  some  heaven  I  could  not  see  that  shone  upon  me. 
There  was  a  wind  from  some  far  latitude  that  breathed  upon 
me.  To  be  quickened  is  to  be  touched  by  a  vital  finger.  To 
be  quickened  is  to  receive  a  fructifying  flood  from  the  great 
source  of  life. 

The  change  was  something  better  than  had  happened  to  me 
under  Mr.  Bedlow's  preaching,  long  years  before ;  but  neither 
change  was  conversion.  Far  back  in  childhood,  at  my 
mother's  knee,  at  my  father's  side,  and  in  my  own  secret  cham 
ber,  those  changes  were  wrought  which  had  directed  my  life 
toward  a  Christian  consummation.  My  little  rivulet  was  flow 
ing  toward  the  sea,  increasing  as  it  went,  when  it  was  disturbed 
by  the  first  awful  experiences  of  my  life ;  and  its  turbid  waters 
were  never,  until  this  latter  time,  wholly  clarified.  My  little 
plant,  tender  but  upright,  was  just  rising  out  of  its  nursing 
shadows  into  the  light  when  the  great  tempest  swept  over  it. 
If  my  later  experience  was  conversion,  then  conversion  may 
come  to  a  man  every  year  of  his  life.  It  was  simply  the  re 
vivification  and  reinforcement  of  the  powers  and  processes  of 
spiritual  life.  It  was  ministry,  direct  and  immediate,  to  devel 
opment  and  growth  ;  and  with  me  it  was  complete  restoration 
to  the  track  of  my  Christian  boyhood,  and  a  thrusting  out  of 
my  life  of  all  the  ideas,  policies  and  results  of  that  terrible  winter 
which  I  can  never  recall  without  self-pity  and  humiliation. 

The  difference  in  the  respective  effects  of  the  two  great 
crises  of  my  spiritual  history  upon  my  power  to  work  illus 
trated  better  than  anything  else,  perhaps,  the  difference  in 
their  nature.  The  first  was  a  dissipation  of  power.  I  could 
not  work  while  it  lasted,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  355 

gather  and  hold  in  hand  my  mental  forces.  The  second  was 
an  accession  of  strength  and  the  power  of  concentration.  I 
am  sure  that  I  never  worked  harder  or  better  than  I  did  during 
the  time  that  my  late  change  was  in  progress.  It  was  an  up 
lifting,  enlightening  and  strengthening  inspiration.  One  was 
a  poison,  the  other  was  a  cure ;  one  disturbed,  the  other  har 
monized;  one  was  surcharged  with  fear,  the  other  brimmed 
with  hope ;  one  exhausted,  the  other  nourished  and  edified 
me ;  one  left  my  spirit  halting  and  ready  to  stumble,  the  other 
left  it  armed  and  plumed. 

After  my  days  at  the  academy,  came  my  evening  readings  of 
the  elementary  books  of  the  profession  which  I  had  chosen. 
There  were  no  holidays  for  me  ;  and  during  those  three  years  I 
am  sure  I  accomplished  more  professional  study  than  nine-tenths 
of  the  young  men  whose  every  day  was  at  their  disposal.  I 
was  in  high  health  and  in  thorough  earnest.  My  physical  pow 
ers  had  never  been  overtasked,  and  I  found  myself  in  the 
possession  of  vital  resources  which  enabled  me  to  accomplish 
an  enormous  amount  of  labor.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there 
were  those  around  me  who  felt  a  measure  of  pity  for  me,  but 
1  had  no  occasion  to  thank  them  for  it  I  had  never  before 
felt  so  happy,  and  I  learned  then,  what  the  world  is  slow  to 
learn,  that  there  can  be  no  true  happiness  that  is  not  the  re 
sult  of  the  action  of  harmonious  powers  steadily  bent  upon 
pursuits  that  seek  a  worthy  end.  Comfort  of  a  certain  sort 
there  may  be,  pleasure  of  a  certain  quality  there  may  be,  in 
ease  and  in  the  gratification  of  that  which  is  sensuous  and 
sensual  in  human  nature ;  but  happiness  is  never  a  lazy  man's 
dower  nor  a  sensualist's  privilege.  That  is  reserved  for  the 
worker,  and  can  never  be  grasped  and  held  save  by  true  man 
hood  and  womanhood.  It  was  a  great  lesson  to  learn,  and  it 
was  learned  for  a  lifetime  ;  for,  in  this  eventide  of  life,  with 
the  power  to  the  rest,  I  find  no  joy  like  that  which  comes  to 
me  at  the  table  on  which,  day  after  day,  I  write  the  present 
record. 

Dining  the  autumn  and  winter  which  followed  the  assump- 


356  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

tion  of  my  new  duties,  I  was  often  at  The  Mansion,  and  a 
witness  of  the  happiness  of  its  inmates.  Mrs.  Sanderson  was 
living  in  a  new  atmosphere.  Every  thought  and  feeling  seemed 
to  be  centered  upon  her  lately  discovered  treasure.  She  lis 
tened  to  his  every  word,  watched  his  every  motion,  and  seemed 
to  feel  that  all  her  time  was  lost  that  was  not  spent  in  his  pres 
ence.  The  strong,  indomitable,  self-asserting  will  which  she 
had  exercised  during  all  her  life  was  laid  at  his  feet.  With  her 
fortune  she  gave  herself.  She  was  weary  with  the  long  strain 
and  relinquished  it.  She  trusted  him,  leaned  upon  him,  lived 
upon  him.  She  was  in  the  second  childhood  of  her  life,  and  it 
was  better  to  her  than  her  womanhood.  He  became  in  her 
imagination  the  son  whom  long  years  before  she  had  lost.  His 
look  recalled  her  boy,  his  voice  was  the  repetition  of  the  old 
music,  and  she  found  realized  in  him  all  the  dreams  she  had  in 
dulged  in  concerning  him  who  so  sadly  dissipated  them  in  his 
own  self-ruin. 

The  object  of  all  this  trust  and  tenderness  was  as  happy  as 
she.  It  always  touched  me  deeply  to  witness  the  gentleness  of 
his  manner  toward  her.  He  anticipated  all  her  wants,  deferred 
to  her  slightest  wish,  shaped  all  his  life  to  serve  her  own.  The 
sense  of  kindred  blood  was  strongly  dominant  within  him,  and 
his  grandmother  was  held  among  the  most  sacred  treasures  of 
his  heart.  Whether  he  ever  had  the  influence  to  lead  her  to 
higher  sources  of  joy  and  comfort  than  himself,  I  never  knew, 
but  I  know  that  in  the  old  mansion  that  for  so  many  years  had 
been  the  home  of  revelry  or  of  isolated  selfishness,  an  altar  was 
reared  from  which  the  incense  of  Christian  hearts  rose  with  the 
rising  sun  of  morning  and  the  rising  stars  of  night. 

Henry  passed  many  days  with  me  at  the  academy.  In  truth, 
my  school  was  his  loitering  place,  though  his  loitering  was  of 
a  very  useful  fashion.  I  found  him  so  full  of  the  results  of  ex 
perience  in  the  calling  in  which  I  was  engaged  that  I  won  from 
him  a  thousand  valuable  suggestions ;  and  such  was  his  love 
for  the  calling  that  he  rarely  left  me  without  hearing  a  recitation, 
which  he  had  the  power  to  make  so  vitally  interesting  to  my 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  357 

pupils  that  he  never  entered  the  study-hall  without  awakening 
a  smile  of  welcome  from  the  whole  school.  Sometimes  he 
went  with  Claire  to  her  class-rooms  ;  and,  as  many  of  her  pupils 
had  previously  been  his  own,  he  found  himself  at  home  every 
where.  There  was  no  foolish  pride  in  his  heart  that  protested 
against  her  employment.  He  saw  that  she  was  not  only  useful 
but  happy,  and  knew  that  she  was  learning  quite  as  much  that 
would  be  useful  to  her  as  those  who  engaged  her  efforts.  Her 
office  deepened  and  broadened  her  womanhood  ;  and  I  could 
see  that  Henry  was  every  day  more  pleased  and  satisfied  with 
her.  If  she  was  ill  for  a  day,  he  took  her  place,  and  watched 
for  and  filled  every  opportunity  to  lighten  her  burdens. 

Mr.  Bradford  was,  perhaps,  my  happiest  friend.  He  had  had 
so  much  responsibility  in  directing  and  changing  the  currents 
of  my  life,  that  it  was  with  unbounded  satisfaction  that  he 
witnessed  my  happiness,  my  industry  and  my  modest  pros 
perity.  Many  an  hour  did  he  sit  upon  my  platform  with  me, 
with  his  two  hands  resting  upon  his  cane,  his  fine,  honest  face 
all  aglow  with  gratified  interest,  listening  to  the  school  in  its 
regular  exercises ;  and  once  he  came  in  with  Mr.  Bird  who 
had  traveled  all  the  way  from  Hillsborough  to  see  me.  And 
then  my  school  witnessed  such  a  scene  as  it  had  never  wit 
nessed  before.  I  rushed  to  my  dear  old  friend,  threw  my  arms 
around  him  and  kissed  him.  The  silver  had  begun  to  show 
itself  in  his  beard  and  on  his  temples,  and  he  looked  weary. 
I  gave  him  a  chair,  and  then  with  tears  in  my  eyes  I  stood  out 
upon  the  platform  before  my  boys  and  girls,  and  told  them 
who  he  was,  and  what  he  had  been  to  me.  I  pictured 
to  them  the  life  of  The  Bird's  Nest,  and  assured  them  that  if 
they  had  found  anything  to  approve  in  me,  as  a  teacher  and  a 
friend,  it  was  planted  and  shaped  in  that  little  garden  on  the 
hill.  I  told  them  further  that  if  any  of  them  should  ever  come 
to  regard  me  with  the  affection  I  felt  for  him,  I  should  feel 
myself  abundantly  repaid  for  all  the  labor  I  had  bestowed  upon 
them — nay,  for  the  labor  of  a  life.  I  was  roused  to  an  elo 
quence  and  touched  to  a  tenderness  which  were  at  least  new  to 


358  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

them,  and  their  eyes  were  wet.  When  I  concluded,  poor  Mr. 
Bird  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  unable  to  say  a  word. 

As  we  went  out  from  the  school  that  night,  arm  in  arm,  he 
said  :  "It  was  a  good  medicine,  Arthur — heroic,  but  good." 

"It  was,"  I  answered,  "  and  I  can  never  thank  you  and  Mr. 
Bradford  enough  for  it." 

First  1  took  him  to  my  home,  and  we  had  a  merry  tea- 
drinking,  at  which  my  mother  yielded  up  all  her  prejudices 
against  him.  I  showed  him  my  little  room,  so  like  in  its 
dimensions  and  appointments  to  the  one  I  occupied  at  The 
Bird's  Nest,  and  then  I  took  him  to  The  Mansion  for  a  call 
upon  Henry.  After  this  we  went  to  Mr.  Bradford's,  where  we 
passed  the  evening,  and  where  he  spent  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IN   WHICH     I     LEARN     SOMETHING    ABOUT    LIVINGSTON,    MILLIE 
BRADFORD  AND  MYSELF. 

SINCE  the  old  days  of  my  boyhood,  when  Millie  Bradford 
and  I  had  been  intimate,  confidential  friends,  she  had  never 
received  me  with  the  cordiality  that  she  exhibited  on  that 
evening.  I  suppose  she  had  listened  to  the  account  which  her 
father  gave  of  my  meeting  with  my  old  teacher,  and  of  the 
words  which  that  meeting  had  inspired  me  to  utter.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  my  later  history  had  pleased  her,  and  done  much  to 
awaken  her  old  regard  for  me.  Whatever  the  reasons  may 
have  been,  her  grasp  was  hearty,  her  greeting  cordial,  and  her 
face  was  bright  with  welcome.  I  need  not  say  that  all  this 
thrilled  me  with  pleasure,  for  I  had  inwardly  determined  to 
earn  her  respect,  and  to  take  no  steps  for  greater  intimacy  until 
I  had  done  so,  even  if  it  should  lead  me  to  abandon  all  hope 
of  being  more  to  her  than  I  had  been. 

It  was  easy  that  evening  to  win  her  to  our  old  corner  in  the 
drawing-room.  Mrs.  Bradford  and  Aunt  Flick  were  ready 
listeners  to  the  conversation  in  progress  between  Mr.  Bradford 
and  Mr.  Bird,  and  we  found  ourselves  at  liberty  to  pursue  our 
own  ways,  without  interruption  or  observation. 

She  questioned  me  with  great  interest  about  my  school,  and 
as  that  was  a  subject  which  aroused  all  my  enthusiasm,  I  talked 
freely,  and  amused  her  with  incidents  of  my  daily  work.  She 
could  not  but  have  seen  that  I  was  the  victim  of  no  vain  regrets 
concerning  my  loss  of  position  and  prospects,  and  that  all  my 
energies  and  all  my  heart  were  in  my  new  life.  I  saw  that  she 
was  gratified;  and  1  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  was  pro 
foundly  interested  in  my  success. 


360  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  By  the  way,"  I  said,  after  having  dwelt  too  long  upon  a 
topic  that  concerned  myself  mainly,  "  I  wonder  what  has  be 
come  of  Livingston  ?  He  was  going  to  Europe,  but  I  have  not 
heard  a  word  from  him  since  I  parted  with  him  months  ago. 
Do  you  know  anything  of  him?" 

"  Have  n't  heard  from  him  ?"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  in 
credulous  gasp. 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  Have  n't  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  have  n't  been  out  of  the  town." 

"  No,  but  you  have  seen  him  here  ?" 

"  Not  once." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure,"  I  responded,  with  a  smile  at  her  obstinate 
unbelief. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  she  said,  looking  away  from  me. 

"  Has  he  been  here  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Twice." 

I  saw  that  she  was  not  only  puzzled,  but  deeply  moved ;  and 
I  was  conscious  of  a  flush  of  mingled  anger  and  indignation 
sweeping  over  my  own  tell-tale  face. 

"  Did  he  call  on  Henry  when  he  was  here  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  He  did,  on  both  occasions.     Did  not  Henry  tell  you  ?  " 

"  He  did  not." 

"  That  is  strange,  too,"  she  remarked. 

"  Miss  Bradford,"  I  responded,  "  it  is  not  strange  at  all.  I 
comprehend  the  whole  matter.  Henry  knew  Livingston  better 
than  I  did,  and,  doubting  whether  he  would  care  to  continue  his 
acquaintance  with  me  after  the  change  in  my  circumstances,  had 
not  mentioned  his  calls  to  me.  He  knew  that  if  I  had  met  him, 
I  should  speak  of  it ;  and  as  I  did  not  speak  of  it,  he  concluded 
that  I  had  not  met  him,  and  so  covered  from  me  by  his  silence 
the  presence  of  my  old  friend  in  the  city.  Livingston  did  not 
call  upon  me  because,  having  nothing  further  in  common  with 
me,  he  chose  to  ignore  me  altogether,  and  to  count  all  that  had 
appeared  like  friendship  between  us  for  nothing.  I  was  no 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  361 

longer  an  heir  to  wealth.  I  was  a  worker  for  my  own  bread, 
with  my  position  to  make  by  efforts  whose  issue  was  uncertain. 
I  could  be  his  companion  no  further  ;  I  could  be  received  at 
his  father's  home  no  more.  Every  attention  or  courtesy  he 
might  render  me  could  be  rendered  no  more  except  as  a  matter 
of  patronage.  I  can  at  least  give  him  the  credit  for  having 
honesty  and  delicacy  enough  to  shun  me  when  he  could  meet 
me  no  more  on  even  terms." 

"  Even  terms  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  a  scorn  in  her  man 
ner  and  voice  which  verged  closely  upon  rage.  "  Is  that  a 
style  of  manhood  that  one  may  apologize  for  ?  " 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "considering  the  fact  that  I  was  at 
tracted  to  him  at  first  by  the  very  motives  which  control  him 
now,  I  ought  to  be  tolerant  and  charitable." 

"  Yes,  if  that  is  true,"  she  responded  ;  "  but  the  matter  is  in 
credible  and  incomprehensible." 

"It  begins  to  seem  so  now,  to  me,"  I  replied,  "but  it  did 
not  then.  Our  clique  in  college  were  all  fools  together,  and 
fancied  that,  because  we  had  some  worldly  advantages  not 
shared  by  others,  we  were  raised  by  them  above  the  common 
level.  We  took  pride  in  circumstances  that  were  entirely  inde 
pendent  of  our  manhood — circumstances  that  were  gathered 
around  us  by  other  hands.  I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  my  old 
•weakness,  and  despise  myself  for  it ;  but  I  can  appreciate  the 
strength  of  the  bonds  that  bind  Livingston,  and  I  forgive  him 
with  all  my  heart." 

"  I  do  not,"  she  responded.  "  The  slight  he  has  put  upon  you, 
and  his  new  friendship  for  Henry,  disgust  me  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.  His  conduct  is  mercenary  and  unmanly,  and  offends 
me  from  the  crown  of  my  head  to  the  sole  of  my  foot." 

In  the  firm,  strong  passion  of  this  true  girl  I  saw  my  old  self, 
and  realized  the  wretched  slough  from  which  I  had  been  lifted. 
I  could  not  feel  as  she  did,  however,  toward  Livingston.  After 
the  first  flush  of  anger  had  subsided,  I  saw  that,  without  some 
radical  change  in  him,  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  he  had 
done.  Though  manly  in  many  of  his  characteristics,  his  scheme 


362  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

of  life  was  rotten  at  its  foundation,  in  that  it  ignored  manliness. 
His  standard  of  respectability  was  not  natural,  it  was  conven 
tional  ;  and  so  long  as  he  entertained  no  plan  of  life  that  was 
based  in  manliness  and  manly  work,  his  associations  would  be 
controlled  by  the  conventional  standard  to  which  he  and  those 
around  him  bowed  in  constant  loyalty. 

After  her  frank  expression  of  indignation,  she  seemed  inclined 
to  drop  the  subject,  and  only  a  few  more  words  were  uttered 
upon  either  side  concerning  it.  I  saw  that  she  was  troubled, 
that  she  was  angry,  and  that,  during  the  moments  devoted  to 
the  conversation,  she  had  arrived  at  some  determination  whose 
nature  and  moment  I  could  not  guess.  Sometimes  she  looked 
at  me  :  sometimes  she  looked  away  from  me ;  and  then  her  lips 
were  pressed  together  with  a  strange  spasm  of  firmness,  as  if 
some  new  resolution  of  her  life  were  passing  step  by  step  to  its 
final  issue. 

I  did  guess  afterward,  and  guessed  aright.  Livingston  had 
fascinated  her,  while  she  had  so  wholly  gained  his  affection 
and  respect,  and  so  won  his  admiration,  that  he  was  laying 
siege  to  her  heart  by  all  the  arts  and  appliances  of  which  he  was 
so  accustomed  and  accomplished  a  master.  He  was  the  first 
man  who  had  ever  approached  her  as  a  lover.  She  had  but  just 
escaped  from  the  seclusion  of  her  school-life,  and  this  world  of 
love,  of  which  she  had  only  dreamed,  had  been  opened  to  her 
by  the  hands  of  a  prince.  He  was  handsome,  accomplished  in 
the  arts  of  society,  vivacious  and  brilliant ;  and  while  he  had 
made  comparatively  little  progress  in  winning  her  heart,  he  had 
carried  her  fancy  captive  and  excited  her  admiration,  and  only 
needed  more  abundant  opportunity  to  win  her  wholly  to  himself. 

The  revelation  of  the  real  character  of  the  man,  and  of  his 
graceless  dealing  with  me — the  hollow-heartedness  of  his  friend 
ship,  and  the  transfer  of  his  regard  and  courtesy  from  me  to 
Henry — offended  all  that  was  womanly  within  her.  From  the 
moment  when  she  comprehended  his  position — its  meanness, 
its  injustice  and  unmanliness — she  determined  that  he  should  be 
forever  shut  out  of  her  heart.  She  knew  that  her  judgment 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  363 

and  conscience  could  never  approve  either  his  conduct  or  him 
— that  this  one  act  could  never  be  justified  or  apologized  for. 
The  determination  cost  her  a  struggle  which  called  into  action 
all  the  forces  of  her  nature.  I  have  been  a  thousand  times 
thankful  that  I  did  not  know  what  was  passing  in  her  mind,  for 
I  was  thus  saved  from  all  temptation  to  attempt  to  turn  her 
heart  against  him,  and  turn  it  toward  myself. 

She  wrote  him  a  letter,  as  I  subsequently  learned,  which  was 
intended  to  save  him  the  mortification  of  visiting  her  again  ;  but 
he  came  again,  armed  with  his  old  self-possession,  determined 
to  win  the  prize  upon  which  he  had  set  his  heart ;  and  then  he 
went  away,  visiting  neither  Henry  nor  myself.  Afterward  he 
went  to  Europe,  and  severed  forever  all  his  relations  to  the 
lives  of  his  Bradford  acquaintances. 

When  Millie  and  I  closed  our  conversation  about  Livingston, 
I  found  her  prepossessed  and  silent ;  and,  as  if  by  mutual  im 
pulse  and  consent,  we  rose  from  our  seats,  and  returned  to  the 
other  end  of  the  drawing-room,  where  the  remainder  of  the 
family  were  gathered.  There  we  found  a  conversation  in  pro 
gress  which  I  had  no  doubt  had  been  suggested  by  my  own 
personality  and  position  ;  and  as  it  was  very  fruitfully  sugges 
tive  to  me,  and  became  a  source  of  great  encouragement  to  me, 
I  am  sure  my  readers  will  be  interested  in  it.  We  came  within 
hearing  of  the  conversation,  just  as  Mr.  Bird  was  saying  : — 

"  I  never  saw  a  man  with  anything  of  the  real  Shakspeare  in 
him — using  him  as  our  typical  man — who  could  not  be  any  sort 
of  a  man  that  he  chose  to  be.  A  genuinely  practical  man — a 
man  who  can  adapt  himself  to  any  sort  of  life — is  invariably  a 
man  of  imagination.  These  young  men  who  have  the  name  of 
being  eminently  practical — especially  among  women,  who 
usually  consider  all  practical  gifts  to  be  those  which  relate  to 
making  money  and  providing  for  a  family — are  the  least 
practical,  in  a  wide  sense,  of  anybody.  They  usually  have  a 
strong  bent  toward  a  certain  industrial  or  commercial  pursuit, 
and  if  they  follow  that  bent,  persistently,  they  succeed  ;  but  if 
by  any  chance  they  are  diverted  from  it,  they  fail  irrevocably. 


364  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

Now  the  man  of  imagination  is  he  who  apprehends  and  com 
prehends  the  circumstances,  proprieties  and  opportunities  of 
every  life  in  which  his  lot  may  be  cast,  and  adapts  himself  to 
and  employs  them  all.  I  have  a  fine  chance  to  notice  this  in 
my  boys  ;  and  whenever  I  find  one  who  has  an  imagination,  I 
see  ten  chances  to  make  a  man  of  him  where  one  exists  in 
those  less  generously  furnished." 

"Yet  our  geniuses,"  responded  Mr.  Bradford,  "have  not 
been  noted  for  their  skill  in  practical  affairs,  or  for  their  power 
to  take  care  of  themselves." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Bird,  "because  our  geniuses,  or  what  by 
courtesy  we  call  such,  are  one-sided  men,  who  have  a  single 
faculty  developed  in  exceptionally  large  proportion.  They  are 
practical  men  only  in  a  single  direction,  like  the  man  who  has 
a  special  gift  for  money-making,  or  affairs  ;  and  the  latter  is 
just  as  truly  a  genius  as  the  former,  and  both  are  necessarily 
narrow  men,  and  limited  in  their  range  of  effort.  This  is  not 
at  all  the  kind  of  man  I  mean  ;  I  allude  to  one  who  has  fairly 
symmetrical  powers,  with  the  faculty  of  imagination  among 
them.  Without  this  latter,  a  man  can  never  rise  above  the 
capacity  of  a  kind  of  human  machine,  working  regularly  or  ir 
regularly.  A  man  who  cannot  see  the  poetical  side  of  his  work, 
can  never  achieve  the  highest  excellence  in  it.  The  ideal  must 
always  be  apprehended  before  one  can  rise  to  that  which  is  in 
the  highest  possible  sense  practical.  I  have  known  boys  who 
were  the  despair  of  their  humdrum  fathers  and  mothers,  because, 
forsooth,  they  had  the  faculty  of  writing  verses  in  their  youth. 
They  were  regarded  by  these  parents  with  a  kind  of  blind  pride, 
but  with  no  expectation  for  them  except  poverty,  unsteady  pur 
poses  and  dependence.  I  have  seen  these  same  parents,  many 
times,  depending  in  their  old  age  upon  their  verse-writing  boys 
for  comfort  or  luxury,  while  their  practical  brothers  were  tug 
ging  for  their  daily  bread,  unable  to  help  anybody  but  themselves 
and  their  families." 

Mr.  Bradford  saw  that  I  was  intensely  interested  in  this  talk 
of  Mr.  Bird,  and  said,  with  the  hope  of  turning  it  more  thor- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  365 

oughly  to  my  own  practical  advantage  :  "Well,  what  have  you 
to  say  to  our  young  man  here  ?  He  was  so  full  of  imagination 
when  a  lad  that  we  could  hardly  trust  his  eyes  or  his  con 
science." 

He  said  this  with  a  laugh,  but  Mr.  Bird  turned  toward  me 
with  his  old  affectionate  look,  and  replied  :  "I  have  never  seen 
the  day  since  I  first  had  him  at  my  side,  when  I  did  not  believe 
that  he  had  the  making  of  a  hundred  different  men  in  him.  He 
was  always  a  good  student  when  he  chose  to  be.  He  would 
have  made,  after  a  time,  an  ideal  man  of  leisure.  He  is  a 
good  teacher  to-day.  He  has  chosen  to  be  a  lawyer,  and  it 
rests  entirely  with  him  to  determine  whether  he  will  be  an 
eminent  one.  If  he  had  chosen  to  be  a  preacher,  or  an  author, 
or  a  merchant,  he  would  meet  no  insurmountable  difficulty  in 
rising  above  mediocrity,  in  either  profession.  The  faculty  of 
imagination,  added  to  symmetrical  intellectual  powers,  makes 
it  possible  for  him  to  be  anything  that  he  chooses  to  become. 
By  this  faculty  he  will  be  able  to  see  all  the  possibilities  of  any 
profession,  and  all  the  possibilities  of  his  powers  with  relation 
to  it." 

"  As  frankness  of  speech  seems  to  be  in  order,"  said  Mr. 
Bradford,  "  suppose  you  tell  us  whether  you  do  not  think  that 
he  spends  money  rather  too  easily,  and  that  he  may  find  future 
trouble  in  that  direction." 

Mr.  Bird  at  once  became  my  partisan.  "  What  opportunity 
has  the  boy  had  for  learning  the  value  of  money  ?  When  he 
has  learned  what  a  dollar  costs,  by  the  actual  experiment  of 
labor,  he  will  be  corrected.  Thus  far  he  has  known  the  value 
of  a  dollar  only  from  one  side  of  it.  He  knows  what  it  will 
buy,  but  he  does  not  know  what  it  costs.  Some  of  the  best 
financiers  I  ever  met  were  once  boys  who  placed  little  or  no 
value  upon  money.  No  man  can  measure  the  value  of  a  dol 
lar  justly  who  cannot  place  by  its  side  the  expenditure  of  time 
and  labor  which  it  costs.  Arthur  is  learning  all  about  it." 

"Thank  you,"  I  responded,  "  I  feel  quite  encouraged  about 
myself." 


366  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

"  Now,  then,  what  do  you  think  of  Henry,  in  his  new  cir 
cumstances  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Bradford. 

"  Henry,"  replied  Mr.  Bird,  "  never  had  the  faculty  to  learn 
the  value  of  a  dollar,  except  through  the  difficulty  of  getting  it. 
The  real  superiority  of  Arthur  over  Henry  in  this  matter  is  in 
his  faculty,  not  only  to  measure  the  value  of  a  dollar  by  its  cost, 
but  to  measure  it  by  its  power.  To  know  how  to  win  money 
and  at  the  same  time  to  know  how  to  use  it  when  won,  is  the 
prerogative  of  the  highest  style  of  practical  financial  wisdom. 
Now  that  money  costs  Henry  nothing,  he  will  cease  to  value 
it ;  and  with  his  tastes  I  think  the  care  of  his  fortune  will  be 
very  irksome  to  him.  Indeed,  it  would  not  be  strange  if,  in  five 
years,  that  care  should  be  transferred  to  the  very  hands  that 
surrendered  the  fortune  to  him.  So  our  practical  boy  is  quite 
likely,  in  my  judgment,  to  become  a  mere  baby  in  business, 
while  our  boy  whose  imagination  seemed  likely  to  run  away 
with  him,  will  nurse  him  and  his  fortune  together." 

"  Why,  that  will  be  delightful,"  I  responded.  "  I  shall  be 
certain  to  send  the  first  business-card  I  get  printed  to  Henry, 
and  solicit  his  patronage." 

There  was  much  more  said  at  the  time  about  Henry's  future 
as  well  as  my  own,  but  the  conversation  I  have  rehearsed  was 
all  that  was  of  vital  importance  to  me,  and  I  will  not  burden 
the  reader  with  more.  I  cannot  convey  to  any  one  an  idea  of 
the  interest  which  I  took  in  this  talk  of  my  old  teacher.  It 
somehow  had  the  power  to  place  me  in  possession  of  myself. 
It  recognized,  in  the  presence  of  those  who  loved  but  did  not 
wholly  trust  me,  powers  and  qualities  which,  in  a  half-blind  way, 
I  saw  within  myself.  It  strengthened  my  self-respect  and  my 
faith  in  my  future. 

Ah  !  if  the  old  and  the  wise  could  know  how  the  wisdom 
won  by  their  experience  is  taken  into  the  heart  of  every  earnest 
young  man,  and  how  grateful  to  such  a  young  man  recognition 
is,  at  the  hand  of  the  old  and  the  wise,  would  they  be  stingy 
with  their  hoard  and  reluctant  with  their  hand  ?  I  do  not  be- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  367 

lieve  they  would.  They  forget  their  youth,  when  they  drop 
peas  instead  of  pearls,  and  are  silly  rather  than  sage. 

When  I  left  the  house  to  return  to  my  home,  I  was  charged 
with  thoughts  which  kept  me  awake  far  into  the  night.  The 
only  man  from  whom  I  had  anything  to  fear  as  a  rival  was  in 
disgrace.  My  power  to  win  a  practical  man's  place  in  the 
world  had  been  recognized  in  Millie  Bradford's  presence,  by 
one  whose  opinion  was  very  highly  prized.  I  had  achieved  the 
power  of  looking  at  myself  and  my  possibilities  through  the 
eyes  of  a  wisdom-winning  experience.  I  was  inspired,  encour 
aged  and  strengthened,  and  my  life  had  never  seemed  more  full 
of  meaning  and  interest  than  it  did  then. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  went  for  Mr.  Bird,  accompanied 
him  to  the  stage-office,  and  bade  him  good-by,  grateful  for  such 
a  friend,  and  determined  to  realize  all  that  he  had  wished  and 
hoped  for  me. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  WIN  A  WIFE  AND  HOME  OF  MY  OWN,  AND  THE  MANSION    LOSES 
AND  GAINS  A  MISTRESS. 

IN  those  early  days,  professional  study  was  carried  on  very 
generally  without  the  aid  of  professional  schools ;  and  during 
my  three  years  at  the  academy,  accomplished  with  sufficient 
pecuniary  success,  I  read  all  the  elementary  books  of  the  pro 
fession  I  had  chosen,  and,  at  the  close,  was  admitted  to  the 
bar,  after  an  examination  which  placed  me  at  once  at  the  head 
of  the  little  clique  of  young  men  who  had  fitted  themselves  for 
the  same  pursuit.  Henry,  meantime,  had  realized  a  wish,  long 
secretly  cherished,  to  study  divinity,  and,  under  a  license  from 
the  ministerial  association  of  the  county,  had  preached  many 
times  in  the  vacant  pulpits  of  the  city  and  the  surrounding 
country.  Mrs.  Sanderson  always  went  to  hear  him  when  the 
distance  did  not  forbid  her  ;  and  I  suppose  that  the  city  did 
not  hold  two  young  men  of  more  unwearied  industry  than  our 
selves. 

My  acquaintance  with  Millie  Bradlord  ripened  into  confiden 
tial  friendship,  and,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  into  something 
warmer  and  deeper,  yet  nothing  of  love  was  ever  alluded  to  be 
tween  us.  I  saw  that  she  did  not  encourage  the  advances  of 
other  young  men  which  were  made  upon  every  side,  and  I  was 
quite  content  to  let  matters  rest  as  they  were,  until  my  pros 
pects  for  life  were  more  definite  and  reliable  than  they  were 
then.  We  read  the  same  books,  and  talked  about  them.  We 
engaged  in  the  same  efforts  to  arouse  the  spirit  of  literary  cult 
ure  and  improvement  in  the  neighborhood.  In  the  meantime 
her  womanhood  ripened  clay  by  day,  and  year  by  year,  until  she 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  369 

became  the  one  bright  star  of  my  life.  I  learned  to  look  at  my 
own  character  and  all  my  actions  through  her  womanly  eyes. 
I  added  her  conscience  to  my  own.  I  added  her  sense  of  that 
which  was  proper  and  becoming  and  tasteful  to  my  own. 
Through  her  sensibilities  I  learned  to  see  things  finely,  and  by 
persuasions  which  never  shaped  themselves  to  words,  I  yielded 
myself  to  her,  to  be  led  to  fine  consummations  of  life  and 
character.  She  was  a  being  ineffably  sacred  to  me.  She  was 
never  associated  in  my  mind  with  a  coarse  thought.  She  lifted 
me  into  a  realm  entirely  above  the  atmosphere  of  sensuality, 
from  which  I  never  descended  for  a  moment ;  and  I  thank 
God  that  I  have  never  lost  that  respect  for  woman  which  she 
taught  me. 

I  have  seen,  since  those  days,  so  charged  with  pure  and  pre 
cious  memories,  many  women  of  unworthy  aims,  and  low  and 
frivolous  tastes,  yet  I  have  never  seen  anything  that  bore  the 
form  of  woman  that  did  not  appeal  to  my  tender  consideration. 
I  have  never  seen  a  woman  so  low  that  her  cry  of  distress  or 
appeal  for  protection  did  not  stir  me  like  a  trumpet,  or  so  base 
that  I  did  not  wish  to  cover  her  shame  from  ribald  eyes,  and 
restore  her  to  that  better  self  which,  by  the  grace  of  her  nature, 
can  never  be  wholly  destroyed. 

Soon  after  the  term  had  closed  which  severed  the  connection 
of  Claire  and  myself  with  the  academy,  I  was  made  half  wild 
with  delight  by  an  invitation,  extended  to  Henry  and  Claire,  as 
well  as  to  Millie  and  myself,  to  visit  Hillsborough,  and  join  the 
Bird's  Nest  in  their  biennial  encampment.  I  knew  every  rod 
of  ground  around  the  beautiful  mountain-lake  upon  whose 
shores  the  white  tents  of  the  school  were  to  be  planted,  for, 
though  six  miles  away  from  my  early  school,  I  had  visited  it 
many  times  during  holidays,  and  had  sailed  and  angled  and 
swam  upon  its  waters.  For  many  years  it  had  been  Mr.  Bird's 
habit,  at  stated  intervals,  to  take  his  whole  school  to  this  lovely 
spot  during  the  fervors  of  the  brief  New  England  summer  and 
to  yield  a  fortnight  to  play.  The  boys  looked  forward  to  this 
event,  through  the  long  months  of  their  study,  with  the  most 
1G* 


370  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

charming  anticipations,  and  none  of  them  could  have  been 
more  delighted  with  the  prospect  than  Henry  and  myself.  We 
were  now  the  old  boys  going  back,  to  be  looked  at  and  talked 
about  by  the  younger  boys.  We  were  to  renew  our  boyhood 
and  our  old  associations  before  undertaking  the  professional 
work  of  our  lives. 

As  both  Mr.  Bradford  and  my  father  trusted  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bird,  it  was  not  difficult  to  obtain  their  consent  that  Millie  and 
Claire  should  accompany  us  ;  and  when  the  morning  of  our 
departure  arrived,  we  were  delighted  to  find  that  we  should  be 
the  only  occupants  of  the  old  stage-coach  which  was  to  bear  us 
to  our  destination.  The  day  was  as  beautiful  as  that  on  which 
my  father  and  I  first  made  the  journey  over  the  same  route. 
The  objects  along  die  way  were  all  familiar  to  Henry  and  my 
self,  but  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  lived  a  whole  lifetime  since  we 
had  seen  them.  We  gave  ourselves  up  to  merriment.  The 
spirit  of  play  was  upon  us  all ;  and  the  old  impassive  stage- 
driver  must  have  thought  us  half  insane.  The  drive  was  long, 
but  it  might  have  been  twice  as  long  without  wearying  us. 

I  was  going  back  to  the  fountain  from  which  I  had  drunk 
so  much  that  had  come  as  a  pure  force  into  my  life.  Even  the 
privilege  to  play,  without  a  thought  of  work,  or  a  shadow  of 
care  and  duty,  1  had  learned  from  the  teachings  of  Mr.  Bird.  I 
had  been  taught  by  him  to  believe — what  many  others  had  en 
deavoured  to  make  me  doubt — that  God  looked  with  delight 
upon  his  weary  children  at  play, — that  the  careless  lambs  that 
gambolled  in  their  pasture,  and  the  careless  birds  singing  and 
flying  in  the  air,  were  not  more  innocent  in  their  sports  than 
men,  women  and  children,  when,  after  work  faithfully  done, 
they  yielded  to  the  recreative  impulse,  and  with  perfect  freedom 
gave  themselves  to  play.  I  believed  this  then,  and  I  believe  it 
still ;  and  I  account  that  religion  poor  and  pitiful  which  ascribes 
to  the  Good  Father  of  us  all  less  delight  in  the  free  and  care 
less  sports  of  his  children  than  we  take  in  the  frolic  of  our 
own. 

The  whole  school  was  out  to  see  the  new-comers  when  we 


Arthiir  Bonnicastle.  371 

arrived,  and  we  were  received  literally  with  open  arms  by  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  establishment.  Already  the  tents 
and  cooking  utensils  had  gone  forward.  A  few  of  the  older 
boys  were  just  starting  on  foot  for  the  scene  of  the  fortnight's 
play,  to  sleep  in  neighboring  barns,  so  as  to  be  on  the  ground 
early  to  assist  in  raising  the  tents.  They  could  have  slept  in 
beds,  but  beds  were  at  a  discount  among  lads  whose  present 
ambition  was  to  sleep  upon  the  ground.  The  whole  building 
was  noisy  with  the  notes  of  preparation.  Food  was  preparing 
in  incredible  quantities,  and  special  preparations  were  in  pro 
gress  for  making  Millie  and  Claire  comfortable  ;  for  it  was  sup 
posed  that  "  roughing  it "  was  something  foreign  to  their  taste 
and  experience. 

On  the  following  morning,  I  was  roused  from  my  dreams  by 
the  same  outcry  of  the  boys  to  which  I  had  responded,  or  in 
which  I  had  joined,  for  a  period  of  five  happy  years.  I  was 
obliged  to  rub  my  eyes  before  I  could  realize  that  more  than 
seven  years  lay  between  me  and  that  golden  period.  When  at 
last  I  remembered  how,  under  that  roof,  breathed  the  woman 
dearer  to  me  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  that  for  two 
precious  weeks  she  would  be  my  companion,  amid  the  most 
enchanting  scenes  of  nature,  and  under  circumstances  so  fresh 
and  strange  as  to  touch  all  her  sensibilities,  I  felt  almost  guilty 
that  I  could  not  bring  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  an  undivided 
heart,  and  that  The  Bird's  Nest,  and  the  lake,  and  the  camp- 
fires,  and  the  free  life  of  the  wilderness  would  be  compara 
tively  meaningless  to  me  without  her. 

Our  breakfast  was  a  hurried  one.  The  boys  could  hardly 
wait  to  eat  anything,  and  started  off  by  pairs  and  squads  to 
make  the  distance  on  foot.  A  huge  lumber-wagon,  loaded  with 
supplies,  was  the  first  carriage  dispatched.  Then  those  who 
would  need  to  ride  took  their  seats  in  such  vehicles  as  the 
school  and  village  afforded,  and  the  straggling  procession  moved 
on  its  way.  Henry  and  I  spurned  the  thought  of  being  carried, 
and  took  our  way  on  foot.  We  had  not  gone  half  the  distance, 
however,  when  Millie  and  Claire  insisted  on  joining  us.  So 


37 


A  rth  u  r  Bon  n  teas  tie. 


our  little  party  bade  the  rest  good-by,  and  we  were  left  to  take 
our  own  time  for  the  journey. 

We  were  the  last  to  arrive  at  the  encampment,  and  the  sun 
was  already  hot  in  the  sky.  Poor  Claire  was  quite  exhausted, 
but  Millie  grew  stronger  with  every  step.  The  flush  of  health 
and  happiness  upon  her  face  drew  forth  a  compliment  from 
Mr.  Bird  which  deepened  her  color,  and  made  her  more  charm 
ing  than  ever.  The  life  was  as  new  to  her  as  if  she  had  ex 
changed  planets  ;  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  it,  and  all  the 
pleasant  labor  which  the  provision  for  so  many  rendered  neces 
sary,  with  a  ready  and  hearty  helpfulness  that  delighted  every  one. 
She  could  not  move  without  attracting  a  crowd  of  boys.  She 
walked  and  talked  with  them  ;  she  sang  to  them  and  read  to 
them  ;  and  during  the  first  two  or  three  days  of  camp-life,  I  be 
gan  to  fear  that  I  should  have  very  little  of  her  society. 

The  days  were  not  long  enough  for  our  pleasures.  Bathing, 
boating,  ball-playing  and  eating  through  the  day,  and  singing 
and  story-telling  during  the  evening,  constituted  the  round  of 
waking  delights,  and  the  nights,  cool  and  sweet,  were  long 
with  refreshing  and  dreamless  slumber. 

There  is  no  kinder  mother  than  the  earth,  when  we  trust 
fully  lay  our  heads  upon  her  bosom.  She  holds  balm  and 
blessing  for  the  rich  and  the  poor,  for  the  hardy  and  the  dainty 
alike,  which  the  bed  of  luxury  never  knows.  Pure  air  to 
breathe,  pure  water  to  drink  and  a  pillow  of  stone — ah  !  how 
easy  it  is  for  the  invisible  ministers  of  health  and  happiness  to 
build  ladders  between  such  conditions  and  heaven  ! 

Far  back  over  the  dim  years  that  have  come  between,  I  see 
those  camp-fires  glowing  still,  through  evenings  full  of  music 
and  laughter.  I  see  the  groups  of  merry  boys  dancing  around 
them.  I  hear  their  calls  for  Echo  to  the  woods,  and  then,  in 
the  pauses,  the  plash  of  oars,  as  some  group  of  late  sailors 
comes  slowly  in,  stirring  the  lake  into  ripples  that  seem  phos 
phorescent  in  the  firelight.  I  watch  those  fires  crumbling 
away,  and  dying  at  last  into  cloudy  darkness,  or  into  the  milder 
moonlight  which  then  asserts  its  undivided  sway,  and  floods 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  373 

lake  and  forest  and  mountain,  and  all  the  night-sweet  atmos 
phere  with  its  steady  radiance.  I  see  the  tent  in  which  my 
sister  and  my  love  are  sleeping,  and  invoke  for  them  the  guar 
dian  care  of  God  and  all  good  angels.  I  go  at  last  to  my  own 
tent,  and  lie  down  to  a  sleep  of  blessed,  blank  unconscious 
ness,  from  which  I  am  roused  by  the  cry  of  healthy  lungs  that 
find  no  weariness  in  play,  and  by  the  tramping  of  feet  around 
me  that  spring  to  the  tasks  and  sports  of  the  day  with  unflag 
ging  appetite  and  interest. 

Did  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  know  how  much  pleasure  they  were 
giving  to  the  young  life  around  them  ?  Did  they  know  that 
they  were  enabling  us  all  to  lay  up  memories  more  precious 
than  gold  ?  Did  they  know  they  were  developing  a  love  of 
nature  and  of  healthful  and  simple  pleasures  that  should  be  a 
constant  guard  around  those  young  feet,  when  they  should  find 
themselves  among  the  slippery  places  of  life  and  the  seductive 
influences  of  artificial  society.  Did  they  know  that  making 
the  acquaintance  of  the  birds  and  flowers  and  open  sky  and 
expanding  water  and  rough  life  was  better  than  the  culture  and 
restraint  of  drawing-rooms  ?  Did  they  know  that  these  boys, 
deprived  of  this  knowledge  and  these  influences,  would  go 
through  life  lacking  something  inexpressibly  valuable  ?  Surely 
they  did,  or  they  would  not  have  sacrificed  labour  and  care  and 
comfort  to  achieve  these  objects  and  results.  A  thousand 
blessings  on  you,  my  wise,  patient,  self-sacrificing  friends  !  It 
is  no  wonder  that  all  who  have  lived  under  your  ceaseless  and 
self-devoted  ministry  love  you  ! 

The  moon  was  new  when  we  went  into  camp,  and  as  it  grew 
larger  the  weather  grew  finer,  until,  as  the  fortnight  waned,  it 
came  to  its  glorious  full,  on  a  night  whose  events  made  it  for 
ever  memorable  to  me. 

I  do  not  know  why  it  is  that  a  boy,  or  a  collection  of  boys, 
is  so  keen  in  the  discovery  of  tender  relations  between  young 
men  and  young  women,  but  I  think  that,  from  the  first,  the 
school  understood  exactly  the  relations  of  Henry  to  Claire 
and  of  Millie  to  myself.  There  was  a  lively  family  interest  in 


374  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

us  all,  and  the  young  rogues  seemed  to  understand  that  mat 
ters  were  all  settled  between  the  former  pair,  and  that  they 
had  not  reached  a  permanent  adjustment  between  the  latter. 
Henry  and  Claire  could  always  be  with  each  other  without  in 
terruption.  They  could  go  down  to  the  shore  at  any  time  of 
the  day  or  evening,  enter  a  boat,  and  row  out  upon  the  lake, 
and  find  nothing  to  interfere  with  their  privacy  ;  but  Millie  and 
I  could  never  approach  a  boat  without  finding  half  a  dozen 
little  fellows  at  our  side,  begging  to  be  taken  out  with  us  upon 
the  water.  There  was  always  mischief  in  their  eyes,  and  an 
evident  wish  to  make  the  course  of  true  love  rough  to  us. 
There  was  something  so  amusing  in  all  this,  to  me,  that  I  never 
could  get  angry  with  them,  but  Millie  was  sometimes  disturbed 
by  their  good-natured  persecutions. 

On  one  of  the  later  evenings,  however,  Millie  and  I  took 
advantage  of  their  momentary  absorption  in  some  favorite 
game,  and  quietly  walked  to  the  shore,  unnoticed  by  any  of 
them.  She  took  her  seat  in  the  boat,  and,  shoving  it  from  the 
sand,  I  sprang  in  after  her,  and  we  were  afloat  and  free  upon  the 
moonlit  water.  For  some  minutes  I  did  not  touch  the  oars,  but 
let  the  boat  drift  out  with  the  impulse  I  had  given  it,  while  we 
watched  the  outlines  of  the  white  tents  against  the  sky,  and  the 
groups  which  the  camp-fires  made  fantastic. 

It  was  the  first  time,  since  our  residence  at  the  camp,  that  I 
had  been  alone  with  her  under  circumstances  which  placed  us 
beyond  hearing  and  interruption.  I  had  been  longing  and 
laboring  for  this  opportunity,  and  had  determined  to  bring 
matters  between  us  to  a  crisis.  I  had  faithfully  tried  to  do 
those  things  and  to  adopt  those  plans  and  purposes  of  life 
which  would  command  her  respect  and  confidence.  I  had 
been  so  thoroughly  sincere,  that  I  had  the  consciousness  of 
deserving  her  esteem,  even  though  her  heart  might  not  have 
been  drawn  toward  me  with  any  tenderer  regard.  I  had  been 
in  no  haste  to  declare  my  passion,  but  the  few  days  I  had 
spent  with  her  in  camp  had  so  ripened  and  intensified  it,  that 
I  saw  I  could  not  carry  it  longer,  uncertain  of  its  issue,  without 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  375 

present  torment  or  prospective  danger.  It  seemed,  sometimes 
to  my  great  horror,  as  if  my  life  hung  entirely  upon  hers — as  if 
existence  would  be  a  curse  without  her  companionship. 

After  a  while  spent  in  silence  and  a  strange  embarrassment, 
I  took  the  oars,  and  as  quietly  as  possible  rowed  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  lake.  The  deep  blue  sky  and  the  bright  moon 
were  above  us,  and  the  pure  water  below ;  and  all  the  sounds 
that  came  to  us  from  the  shore  were  softened  into  music. 

At  last  I  broke  the  spell  that  had  held  my  voice  with  what  I 
intended  for  a  common-place,  and  said  :  "  It  seems  a  comfort 
to  get  away  from  the  boys  for  a  little  while,  doesn't  it  ! " 

"  Does  it  ? "  she  responded.  "  You  know  you  have  the 
advantage  of  me  ;  I  haven't  that  pleasure  yet." 

"Oh!  thank  you,"  I  said.  "I  didn't  know  that  you  still 
regarded  me  as  a  boy." 

"  You  were  to  remain  a  boy,  you  know.  Didn't  you  prom 
ise  ?  Have  you  forgotten  ?  " 

"  Have  I  fulfilled  my  promise  ?  " 

"  Yes,  after  a  weary  time." 

"  And  you  recognize  the  boy  again,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"Are  you  pleased?" 

"  I  have  no  fault  to  find,  at  least." 

"  And  you  are  the  same  girl  I  used  to  know  ?  "  I  said. 

"Yes." 

"  Does  the  fact  forbid  us  to  talk  as  men  and  women  talk  ?  " 

"  We  are  here  to  play,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  suppose  we 
may  play  that  we  are  man  and  woman." 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "  suppose  we  play  that  we  are  man  and 
woman,  and  that  I  am  very  fond  of  you  and  you  are  very  fond 
of  me." 

"  It  seems  very  difficult  to  play  this,  especially  when  one  of 
us  is  so  very  much  in  earnest." 

"  Which  one  ?  " 

"The  one  who  wishes  to  play." 

"  Ah  !  Millie,"   I  said,   "  you  really  must   not   bandy  words 


376  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

with  me.  Indeed,  I  am  too  much  in  earnest  to  play.  I 
have  a  secret  to  tell  you,  and  this  is  my  first  good  opportunity 
to  tell  it,  and  you  must  hear  it." 

"  A  secret  ?    do  you  think  so  ?  I  doubt  it." 

"  Do  you  read  me  so  easily  ?  " 

She  reached  out  her  hand  upon  the  water  to  grasp  a  dark 
little  object,  past  which  we  were  slowly  drifting,  and  broke  off 
from  its  long,  lithe  stem  a  water-lily,  and  tossed  it  to  my 
feet.  "There's  a  secret  in  that  little  cone,"  she  said,  "but  I 
know  what  it  is  as  well  as  if  the  morning  sun  had  unfolded  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  secret  has  opened  under  the 
spell  of  your  eyes  every  day  like  the  water-lily  to  the  sun?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  insist  on  putting  it  in  that  very  poetical  way." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  water-lilies  ?  " 

"Very:  fonder  of  them  than  of  any  other  flower  I  know." 

"Well,"  I  responded,  "I'm  a  man,  or  a  boy — just  which 
you  choose — and  don't  pretend  to  be  a  water-lily,  though  I 
wish  my  roots  were  as  safely  anchored  and  my  life  as  purely 
surrounded  and  protected.  I  believe  that  maidenhood  mo 
nopolizes  all  the  lilies  for  its  various  impersonations,  but  for 
the  present  purpose,  I  should  really  like  to  ask  you  if  you 
are  willing  to  take  the  water-lily  for  the  one  flower  of  your 
life,  with  all  its  secrets  which  you  claim  to  understand  so  fully." 

"  Charmingly  done,"  she  said — "for  a  boy." 

"  You  taunt  me." 

"  No,  Arthur,"  she  responded,  "  but  you  really  are  hurrying 
things  so.  Just  think  of  trying  to  settle  everything  in  five 
minutes,  and  think,  too,  of  the  inconvenience  of  this  little 
boat.  You  cannot  get  upon  your  knees  without  upsetting 
us,  and  then  you  know  I  might  be  compelled  to  adopt  a  water- 
lily." 

"  Particularly  if  the  lily  should  save  your  life." 

"  Yes." 

"  Suppose  we  go  ashore." 

"  Not  for  the  world." 

"Ah  !  Millie,  I  think  I  know  your  secret,"  I  said. 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  377 

"It  isn't  hard  to  discover." 

"Well,  then  let's  not  talk  in  riddles  any  more.  I  love  you 
more  than  life,  Millie  !  may  I  continue  to  love  you  ?  " 

She  paused,  and  I  saw  tears  upon  her  face,  glittering  in  the 
moonlight. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "always." 

"Thank  you!  thank  God!"  I  said  with  a  hearty  impulse. 
"  Life  is  all  bright  to  me  now,  and  all  full  of  promise.  I 
wish  I  could  come  to  you  and  close  this  business  in  the  good 
old  orthodox  fashion." 

She  laughed  at  my  vexation,  and  counseled  patience. 

There  is  something  very  provoking  about  the  coolness  of  a 
woman  under  circumstances  like  those  in  which  I  found 
myself.  For  many  days  I  had  permitted  myself  to  be  wrought 
into  an  exalted  state  of  feeling.  Indeed,  I  had  been  mustering 
strength  for  this  interview  during  all  the  time  I  had  lived  in 
the  camp.  I  was  prepared  to  make  a  thousand  protestations 
of  everlasting  devotion.  I  was  ready  to  cast  at  her  feet  my 
hopes,  my  life,  my  all ;  yet  she  had  anticipated  everything,  and 
managed  to  hold  the  conversation  in  her  own  hands.  Then 
she  apparently  took  delight  in  keeping  me  at  my  end  of  the 
boat,  and  in  dissuading  me  from  my  ardent  wish  to  reach  the 
shore.  I  said  I  thought  it  was  time  for  us  to  return.  She 
protested.  The  people  would  miss  us,  I  assured  her,  and 
would  be  apprehensive  that  we  had  met  with  an  accident.  She 
was  equally  sure  that  they  would  not  miss  us  at  all.  Besides, 
if  they  should,  a  little  scare  would  give  piquancy  to  the  night's 
pleasure,  and  she  would  not  like  to  be  responsible  for  such  a 
deprivation.  In  truth,  I  think  she  would  have  been  delighted 
to  keep  me  on  the  lake  all  night. 

I  finally  told  her  that  I  held  the  oars,  that  if  she  wished  to 
remain  longer  she  would  accommodate  me  by  jumping  over 
board,  and  assured  her  that  I  would  faithfully  deliver  her  last 
messages.  As  she  made  no  movement,  I  dipped  my  oars  and 
rowed  toward  the  dying  lights  of  the  camp-fires,  congratulating 
myself  that  I  should  land  first,  and  help  her  from  the  boat. 


3/8  ArtJiur  Bonnicastle. 

Under  the  sheltering  willows,  I  received  her  into  my  arms, 
and  gave  her  my  first  lover's  kiss.  We  walked  to  her  tent 
hand  in  hand,  like  children,  and  there,  while  the  boys  gathered 
round  us  to  learn  where  we  had  been,  and  to  push  their 
good-natured  inquiries,  I  bent  and  gave  her  a  good-night  kiss, 
which  told  the  whole  story  to  them  all. 

It  seems  strange  to  me  now  that  I  could  have  done  so,  and 
that  she  would  have  permitted  it,  but  it  really  was  so  like  a 
family  matter,  in  which  all  were  interested  in  the  most  friendly  or 
brotherly  way,  that  it  was  quite  the  natural  thing  to  do.  Millie 
immediately  disappeared  behind  her  muslin  walls,  while  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  congratulations.  Nor  was  this  all.  One 
little  fellow  called  for  three  cheers  for  Miss  Bradford,  which  were 
given  with  a  will ;  and  then  three  cheers  were  given  to  Arthur 
Bonnicastle  ;  and  as  their  lungs  were  in  practice,  they  cheered 
Henry  and  Claire,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird,  and  wound  up  that 
part  of  their  exercise  by  three  cheers  for  themselves.  Then 
they  improvised  a  serenade  for  the  invisible  lady,  selecting 
"Oft  in  the  stilly  night,"  and  "The  Pirate's  Serenade,"  as 
particularly  appropriate  to  the  occasion,  and  went  to  their 
beds  at  last  only  under  the  peremptory  commands  of  Mr.  Bird. 

There  were  two  persons  among  the  fifty  that  lay  down  upon 
the  ground  that  night  who  did  not  sleep  very  soundly,  though 
the  large  remainder  slept,  I  presume,  much  as  usual.  I  had 
lain  quietly  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  evening,  and  trying 
to  realize  the  great  blessing  I  had  won,  when,  at  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  heard  the  word  "Arthur"  distinctly 
pronounced.  Not  having  removed  all  my  clothing,  I  leaped 
from  my  blanket,  and  ran  to  the  door  of  the  tent.  There  I 
heard  the  call  again,  and  recognized  the  voice  of  Millie  Brad 
ford. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  I  said. 

"  There  is  some  one  about  the  camp." 

By  this  time  Henry  was  on  his  feet  and  at  my  side,  and  both 
of  us  went  out  together.  We  stumbled  among  the  tent-stakes 
in  different  directions,  and  at  last  found  a  man  so  muddled  with 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  379 

liquor  that  he  hardly  knew  where  he  was.  We  collared  him, 
and  led  him  to  our  tent,  where  we  inquired  of  him  his  business. 
As  he  seemed  unable  to  tell  us,  I  searched  his  pockets  for  the 
bottle  which  I  presumed  he  bore  about  him  somewhere,  and  in 
the  search  found  a  letter,  the  address  of  which  I  read  with  the 
expectation  of  ascertaining  his  name.  Very  much  to  my  sur 
prise,  the  letter  was  addressed  to  Henry.  Then  the  whole 
matter  became  plain  to  me.  He  had  been  dispatched  with  this 
letter  from  Hillsborough,  and  on  the  way  had  fallen  in  with  dis 
solute  companions,  though  he  had  retained  sufficient  sense  to 
know  that  the  camp  was  his  destination, 

Henry  broke  the  seal.  The  letter  was  from  his  mother,  in 
forming  him  that  Mrs.  Sanderson  was  very  ill,  and  that  she  de 
sired  his  immediate  return  to  Bradford.  I  entered  Mr.  Bird's 
tent  and  told  him  of  the  letter,  and  then  satisfied  the  curiosity 
of  Millie  and  Claire.  In  such  clothing  as  we  could  snatch 
readily  from  our  tents  we  gathered  for  a  consultation,  which  re 
sulted  in  the  conclusion  that  any  sickness  which  was  sufficiently 
serious  to  call  Henry  home,  was  sufficient  to  induce  the  entire 
Bradford  party  to  accompany  him.  He  protested  against  this, 
but  we  overruled  him.  So  we  simply  lay  down  until  daylight, 
and  then  rose  for  a  hurried  breakfast.  Mr.  Bird  drove  us  to 
Hillsborough,  and  at  seven  o'clock  we  took  the  stage  for  home. 

The  ride  homeward  was  overshadowed  by  a  grave  apprehen 
sion,  and  the  old  driver  probably  never  had  a  quieter  fare  over 
his  route,  than  the  party  which,  only  a  few  days  before,  had  as 
tonished  him  by  their  hilarity. 

On  reaching  Bradford  we  found  our  worst  fears  realized. 
The  old  lady  was  rapidly  declining,  and  for  three  days  had  been 
vainly  calling  for  her  grandson.  When  he  arrived  he  brought  to 
her  a  great  flood  of  comfort,  and  with  her  hand  in  his,  she  de 
scended  into  the  dark  valley.  What  words  she  spoke  I  never 
knew.  I  was  only  sure  that  she  went  out  of  her  earthly  life  in 
an  atmosphere  of  the  most  devoted  filial  affection,  that  words 
of  Christian  counsel  and  prayer  were  tenderly  spoken  to  her 
deafening  senses,  and  that  hands  bathed  in  tears  closed  her  eyes. 


3So  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

The  funeral  was  the  largest  and  most  remarkable  I  had  ever 
seen  in  Bradford,  and  Henry  went  back  to  his  home,  its  owner 
and  master. 

On  the  day  following  the  funeral  my  father  was  summoned  to 
listen  to  the  reading  of  Mrs.  Sanderson's  will.  We  were  all 
surprised  at  this,  and  still  more  surprised  to  learn,  when  he  re 
turned,  that  the  house  in  which  he  lived  had  been  bequeathed 
to  him,  with  an  annuity  which  would  forever  relieve  me  from 
supporting  him  after  he  should  cease  to  labor.  This  I  knew  to 
be  Henry's  work.  My  father  was  the  father  of  his  future  wife, 
and  to  save  him  the  mortification  of  being  dependent  on  his 
children,  he  had  influenced  Mrs.  Sanderson  to  do  that  which  he 
or  I  should  be  obliged  to  do  at  some  time  not  far  in  the  future. 

My  father  was  very  grateful  and  tearful  over  this  unexpected 
turn  in  his  fortunes.  My  mother  could  not  realize  it  at  all,  and 
was  sure  there  must  be  some  mistake  about  it.  One  of  the 
most  touching  things  in  the  prayer  offered  that  night  at  our 
family  altar  was  the  earnest  petition  by  this  simple  and  humble 
saint,  that  his  pride  might  not  be  nourished  by  this  good  fort 
une. 

After  this  the  matter  came  to  a  natural  shape  in  the  good 
man's  mind.  It  was  not  Mrs.  Sanderson's  gift.  She  had  been 
only  the  almoner  of  Providence.  The  God  whom  he  had 
trusted,  seeing  that  the  time  of  helplessness  was  coming,  had 
provided  for  his  necessities,  and  relieved  him  of  all  apprehen 
sion  of  want,  and  more  than  all,  had  relieved  me  of  a  burden. 
Indeed,  it  had  only  fulfilled  a  life-long  expectation.  His  natu 
ral  hopefulness  would  have  died  amid  his  hard  life  and  cir 
cumstances  if  it  had  not  fed  itself  upon  dreams. 

I  am  sure,  however,  that  he  never  felt  quite  easy  with  his 
gift,  so  long  as  he  lived,  but  carried  about  with  him  a  sense  of 
guilt.  Others — his  old  companions  in  labor — were  not  blessed 
with  him,  and  he  could  not  resist  the  feeling  that  he  had  wronged 
them.  They  congratulated  him  on  his  "  luck,"  as  they  called 
it,  for  they  were  all  his  friends ;  but  their  allusions  to  the  matter 
always  pained  him,  and  he  had  many  an  hour  of  torment  over 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  381 

the  thought  that  some  of  them  might  think  him  capable  of  for 
getting  them,  and  of  pluming  his  pride  upon  his  altered  circum 
stances. 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  fortnight  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Sander 
son,  that  Henry  came  to  my  father's  house  one  morning,  and 
asked  me  when  I  intended  to  begin  business.  I  informed 
him  that  I  had  already  been  looking  for  an  eligible  office,  and 
that  I  should  begin  the  practice  of  the  law  as  soon  as  the  op 
portunity  should  come.  Then  he  frankly  told  me  that  looking 
after  his  multiplied  affairs  was  very  distasteful  to  him,  and  that 
he  wished,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  place  everything  in  my  hands. 
He  advised  me  to  take  the  best  and  most  central  chambers  I 
could  find,  and  offered  me,  at  little  more  than  a  nominal  rent, 
a  suite  of  rooms  in  one  of  his  own  buildings.  I  took  the  rooms 
at  once,  and  furnished  them  with  such  appointments  and  books 
as  the  savings  of  three  industrious  years  could  command,  and 
Henry  was  my  first,  as  he  has  remained  my  constant,  client. 
The  affairs  of  the  Sanderson  estate,  of  which  I  knew  more  than 
any  man  except  Mrs.  Sanderson's  lawyer,  were  placed  in  my 
hands,  where  they  remain  at  this  present  writing.  The  business 
connected  with  them  was  quite  enough  for  my  support  in  those 
days  of  moderate  expenses  and  incomes,  but  it  brought  me  so 
constantly  into  contact  with  the  business  men  of  the  city  that, 
gradually,  the  tide  of  legal  practice  set  towards  me,  -until,  in 
my  maturer  years,  I  was  almost  overwhelmed  by  it.  I  was  en 
ergetic,  enthusiastic,  persevering,  indomitable,  and  successful  ; 
but  amid  all  my  triumphs  there  was  nothing  that  gave  me  such 
pure  happiness  as  my  father's  satisfaction  with  my  efforts. 

I  never  engaged  in  an  important  public  trial  for  many  years, 
in  which  he  was  not  a  constant  attendant  at  the  court-house. 
All  the  lawyers  knew  him,  and  my  position  commanded  a  seat 
for  him  inside  the  bar.  Every  morning  he  came  in,  leaning  on 
his  cane,  and  took  the  seat  that  was  left  or  vacated  for  him, 
and  there,  all  day  long,  he  sat  and  watched  me.  If  for  a  day 
he  happened  to  be  absent,  I  missed  the  inspiration  of  his  in 
terested  face  and  approving  eyes,  as  if  he  were  a  lover.  My 


382  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

office  was  his  lounging-place,  and  my  public  efforts  were  his 
meat  and  drink.  A  serener,  sweeter  old  age  than  his  I  never 
saw,  and  when,  at  last,  I  missed  him — for  death  came  to  him 
as  it  comes  to  all — I  felt  that  one  of  the  loveliest  lights  of  my 
life  had  gone  out.  I  have  never  ceased  to  mourn  for  him,  and 
I  would  not  cease  to  mourn  for  him  if  I  could. 

A  year  after  I  commenced  the  practice  of  my  profession,  Mr. 
Grimshaw  exhausted  his  narrow  lode  and  went  to  mine  in  other 
fields.  Naturally,  Henry  was  called  upon  to  fill  temporarily 
the  vacant  pulpit,  and  quite  as  naturally,  the  people  learned  in 
a  few  weeks  that  they  could  serve  themselves  no  better  than  by 
calling  him  to  a  permanent  pastorate.  This  they  did,  and  as 
he  was  at  home  with  them,  and  every  circumstance  favored  his 
settlement  over  them,  he  accepted  their  invitation.  On  the 
day  of  his  ordination — a  ceremony  which  was  very  largely  at 
tended — he  treated  his  new  people  to  a  great  surprise.  Before 
the  benediction  was  pronounced,  he  descended  from  the  pulpit, 
took  his  way  amid  the  silence  of  the  congregation  to  my  father's 
pew,  and  then  led  my  sister  Claire  up  the  broad  aisle  to  where 
an  aged  minister  stood  waiting  to  receive  them,  and  join  them 
in  holy  wedlock.  The  words  were  few  which  united  these  two 
lives  that  had  flowed  in  closely  parallel  currents  through  so 
long  a  period,  but  they  were  spoken  with  great  feeling,  and 
amid  the  tears  of  a  crowd  of  sympathetic  friends.  So  the  church 
had  once  more  a  pastor,  and  The  Mansion  once  more  a  mis 
tress  ;  and  two  widely  divided  currents  of  the  Bonnicastle  blood 
united  in  the  possession  and  occupation  of  the  family  estate. 

I  do  not  need  to  give  the  details  of  my  own  marriage,  which 
occurred  a  few  months  later,  or  of  our  first  experiments  at 
house-keeping  in  the  snug  home  which  my  quick  prosperity  en 
abled  me  to  procure,  or  of  the  children  that  came  to  bless  us 
in  the  after-years.  The  memory  of  these  events  is  too  sweet 
and  sacred  to  be  unveiled,  and  I  cannot  record  them,  though 
my  tears  wet  the  paper  as  I  write.  The  freshness  of  youth  has 
long  passed  away,  the  silver  is  stronger  than  the  jet  among  the 
curls  of  the  dear  woman  who  gave  herself  to  me,  and  bore  in 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  383 

loving  pain,  and  reared  with  loving  patience,  my  priceless  flock 
of  children  ;  my  own  face  is  deeply  furrowed  by  care  and  labor 
and  time  ;  but  those  days  of  young  love  and  life  never  come 
back  to  me  in  memory  save  as  a  breeze  across  a  weary  sea 
from  some  far  island  loaded  with  odors  of  balm  and  whispers 
of  blessing. 

Thank  God  for  home  and  woman !  Thank  God  a  thousand 
times  for  that  woman  who  makes  home  her  throne  !  When  I 
remember  how  bright  arid  strong  a  nature  my  young  wife  pos 
sessed — how  her  gifts  and  acquirements  and  her  whole  person 
ality  fitted  her  to  shine  in  society  as  a  center  and  a  sun — and 
then  recall  her  efforts  to  serve  and  solace  me,  and  train  my  chil 
dren  into  a  Christian  manhood  and  womanhood,  until  my  house 
was  a  heaven,  and  its  presiding  genius  was  regarded  with  a  love 
that  rose  to  tender  adoration — I  turn  with  pity,  not  unmingled 
with  disgust,  from  those  I  see  around  me  now,  who  cheapen 
marriage,  the  motherly  office  and  home,  and  choose  and  advo 
cate  courses  and  careers  of  life  independent  of  them  all. 

Neither  Henry's  marriage  nor  my  own  was  in  the  slightest 
degree  romantic — hardly  romantic  enough  to  be  of  interest  to 
the  average  reader. 

It  was  better  so.  Our  courtships  were  long  and  our  lives 
were  so  shaped  to  each  other  that  when  marriage  came  it  was 
merely  the  warrant  and  seal  of  a  union  that  had  already  been 
established.  Each  lover  knew  his  love,  and  no  misunderstand 
ings  supervened.  The  hand  of  love,  by  an  unconscious  pro 
cess,  had  shaped  each  man  to  his  mate,  each  woman  to  her 
mate,  before  they  were  joined,  and  thus  saved  all  after-discords 
and  collisions.  All  this  may  be  very  uninteresting  to  outsiders, 
but  to  those  concerned  it  was  harmony,  satisfaction  and  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

WHICH     BRIEFLY    RECORDS     THE     PROFESSIONAL    LIFE    OF     REV. 
PETER  MULLENS. 

IT  must  have  been  three  or  four  years  after  Henry  took 
charge  of  his  parish,  and  I  had  entered  upon  the  duties  of  my 
profession,  that  I  met  him  one  morning  upon  the  street,  wear 
ing  that  peculiar  smile  on  his  face  which  said,  as  plainly  as 
words  could  have  told  me,  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  news. 

"  Who  do  you  think  spent  the  night  at  The  Mansion,  and  is 
even  now  reveling  in  the  luxuries  of  your  old  apartment  ?" 
said  he. 

"  I  was  never  good  at  conundrums,"  I  replied.  "  Suppose 
you  tell  me/' 

"  The  Rev.  Peter  Mullens." 

"  Clothed,  and  in  his  right  mind  ?" 

"  Yes,  clothed,  for  he  has  one  of  my  coats  on,  which  I  have 
told  him  he  may  carry  away  with  him  ;  and  in  his  right  mind, 
because  he  has  the  coat,  and  expects  to  live  upon  the  donor 
for  a  few  days." 

We  both  laughed  over  the  situation,  and  then  Henry  told  me 
that  Mullens  was  in  a  good  deal  of  perplexity  on  account  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  two  "calls"  on  hand,  to  which  answers 
must  be  made  immediately. 

"  I  have  agreed  with  Mullens,"  said  Henry,  "  to  invite  you 
to  dinner,  in  order  that  he  may  have  the  benefit  of  your 
advice." 

"Thank  you.     Is  there  a  fee?" 

"  Nothing  stipulated,  but  I  think  you  had  better  bring  a  pair 
of  trowsers,"  he  replied.  "  Mullens,  you  know,  wants  to  see 


The  Rev.    Peter  Mullens. 


(p.  385-) 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  385 

the  advantages  that  are  likely  to  come  from  following  your 
advice,  and  if  he  has  them  in  hand  he  can  decide  at  once." 

The  prospect  of  dining  with  Mullens  was  not  an  unpleasant 
one.  I  was  curious  to  see  what  he  had  made  of  himself,  and 
to  learn  what  he  was  going  to  do.  So  I  congratulated  Henry 
on  the  new  light  that  had  risen  upon  his  domestic  life,  and 
promised  him  that  I  would  meet  his  guest  at  his  table. 

On  entering  The  Mansion  that  day  in  my  usual  informal 
way,  I  found  the  Rev.  Peter  Mullens  lying  nearly  upon  his 
back,  in  the  most  luxurious  chair  of  the  large  drawing-room, 
.apparently  in  a  state  of  serene  and  supreme  happiness.  He 
was  enjoying  the  privileges  of  the  cloth,  in  the  house  of  a  pro 
fessional  brother  who  had  been  exceptionally  "favored."  For 
the  time,  the  house  was  his  own.  All  petty  cares  were  dis 
missed.  All  clouds  were  lifted  from  his  life,  in  the  conscious 
ness  that  he  had  a  good  coat  on  which  had  cost  him  nothing,  and 
that,  for  a  few  days  at  least,  board  and  lodging  were  secure  at 
the  same  price.  His  hair  was  brushed  back  straight  over  his 
head  in  the  usual  fashion,  and  evidently  fastened  there  by  the 
contents  of  a  box  of  pomatum  which  he  had  found  in  my  old 
chamber.  He  had  managed  to  get  some  gold-bowed  specta 
cles,  and  when  I  met  him  he  presented  quite  an  imposing 
front.  Rising  and  greeting  me  with  a  cordial  and  somewhat 
patronizing  air,  he  quickly  resumed  his  seat  and  his  attitude, 
and  subsided  into  a  vein  of  moralizing.  He  thought  it  must 
be  a  source  of  great  satisfaction  to  me  that  the  property  which 
had  once  been  my  own,  apparently,  had  been  devoted  to  the 
ministry,  and  that  henceforth  The  Mansion  would  be  the  home 
of  those  who  had  given  themselves  to  the  church. 

Mullens  evidently  regarded  himself  as  one  who  had  a  cer 
tain  pecuniary  interest  in  the  estate.  The  house  was  to  be 
his  tavern — his  free,  temporary  home — whenever  it  might  be 
convenient  for  him  to  pass  a  portion  of  his  time  in  the 
city.  Indeed,  he  conducted  himself  as  if  he  were  my  host, 
and  expressed  the  hope  that  he  should  see  me  always  when 
visiting  the  town.  His  assumptions  amused  me  exceedingly, 


386  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

though  I  was  sorry  to  think  that  Henry  and  Claire  would  feel 
themselves  obliged  to  tolerate  him. 

At  the  dinner-table,  Mr.  Mullens  disclosed  the  questions  in 
regard  to  his  settlement.  "The  truth  is,"  said  he,  "that  I  am 
divided  on  a  question  of  duty.  Given  equal  opportunities  of 
doing  good,  and  unequal  compensation,  on  which  side  does 
duty  lie  ?  That  is  the  question.  I  don't  wish  to  be  mercen 
ary  ;  but  when  one  Church  offers  me  five  hundred  dollars  a 
year,  payable  quarterly  in  advance,  and  the  other  offers  me 
five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  payable  quarterly  at  the  end  of  the 
quarter,  with  an  annual  donation-party,  I  feel  myself  divided. 
There  is  an  advantage  in  being  paid  quarterly  in  advance,  and 
there  is  an  advantage  in  a  donation-party,  provided  the  peo 
ple  do  not  eat  up  what  they  bring.  How  great  this  advantage 
is  I  do  not  know ;  but  there  is  something  very  attractive  to  me 
in  a  donation-party.  It  throws  the  people  together,  it  nourishes 
the  social  element,  it  develops  systematic  benevolence,  it  ce 
ments  the  friendship  of  pastor  and  people,  it  brings  a  great 
many  things  into  the  house  that  a  man  can  never  afford  to  buy, 
and  it  must  be  exceedingly  interesting  to  reckon  up  the  results. 
I've  thought  about  it  a  great  deal,  and  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
a  donation-party  must  be  a  very  valuable  test  of  usefulness. 
How  am  I  to  know  whether  my  services  are  acceptable,  unless 
every  year  there  is  some  voluntary  testimonial  concerning 
them?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  must  have  such  a  testimonial. 
I  find  myself  looking  forward  to  it.  Here's  an  old  farmer, 
we'll  say,  without  any  public  gifts.  Hosannas  languish  on  his 
tongue,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  tell,  all  devotion  dies.  He  brings 
me,  perhaps,  two  cords  or  two  cords  and  a  half  of  good  hard 
wood,  and  by  that  act  he  says,  '  The  Rev.  Mr.  Mullens  has 
benefited  me,  and  I  wish  to  tell  him  so.  He  has  warmed  my 
heart,  and  I  will  warm  his  body.  He  has  ministered  to  me  in 
his  way,  and  I  will  minister  to  him  in  my  way.'  Here's  a 
woman  with  a  gift  of  flannel — a  thing  that's  always  useful  in  a 
minister's  family— and  there's  another  with  a  gift  of  socks,  and 
here's  another  with  a  gift  of  crullers,  and  here's  a  man  with  a 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  387 

gift  of  a  spare-rib  or  a  ham,  and  another  with  a  gift  of  potatoes, 
and"— 

Mr.  Mullens  gave  an  extra  smack  to  his  lips,  as,  in  the 
rnidst  of  his  dinner,  this  vision  of  a  possible  donation-party 
passed  before  the  eyes  of  his  imagination. 

"  It  is  plain  to  see  which  way  your  inclination  points,"  I 
said  to  him. 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  troubles  me,"  he  responded.  "  I  wish 
to  do  right.  There  may  be  no  difference  between  having 
your  pay  quarterly  in  advance  and  the  donation-party ;  but  the 
donation-party,  all  things  considered,  is  the  most  attractive." 

"  I  really  think  it  would  suit  you  best,"  I  said,  "  and  if  the 
opportunity  for  doing  good  is  the  same  in  each  place,  I'm  sure 
you  ought  not  to  hesitate." 

"  Well,  if  I  accept  your  advice,"  said  Mr.  Mullens,  "  you 
must  stand  by  me.  This  place  is  only  six  miles  from  Bradford, 
and  if  I  ever  get  hard  up  it  will  be  pleasant  to  think  that  I  have 
such  friends  at  hand  as  you  and  Brother  Sanderson." 

This  was  a  new  aspect  of  the  affair,  and  not  at  all  a  pleasant 
one ;  but  I  had  given  my  advice  and  could  not  retract  it. 

Mullens  remained  at  The  Mansion  several  days,  and  showed 
his  white  cravat  and  gold-bowed  spectacles  all  over  the  city. 
He  was  often  in  my  office,  and  on  one  occasion  accompanied 
me  to  the  court-room,  where  I  gave  him  a  seat  of  honor  and 
introduced  him  to  my  legal  friends.  He  was  so  very  comfortable 
in  his  splendid  quarters,  so  shielded  from  the  homely  affairs  of 
the  world  by  his  associations,  and  so  inexpensive  to  himself, 
that  it  was  a  hardship  to  tear  himself  away  at  last,  even  with 
the  prospect  of  a  donation-party  rising  before  him  in  the  at 
tractive  perspective  of  his  future. 

He  had  been  several  days  in  the  house,  and  had  secured  such 
plunder  as  would  be  of  use  to  him,  personally,  when  he  sur 
prised  us  all  by  the  announcement  that  he  was  a  married  man, 
and  was  already  the  father  of  a  helpless  infant.  He  gave  us 
also  to  understand  that  Mrs.  Mullens  was,  like  himself,  poor, 
that  her  wardrobe  was  none  of  the  most  comfortable,  and  that 


388  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

her  "  helpless  infant "  would  rejoice  in  garments  cast  off  by 
children  more  "  favored  "  than  his  own.  His  statement  was  in 
tended  to  appeal  to  Claire  and  Millie,  and  was  responded  to 
accordingly.  When  he  went  away,  he  bore  a  trunk  full  of 
materials,  that,  as  he  said,  "  would  be  useful  in  a  minister's 
family." 

Henry  and  I  attended  his  installation  shortly  afterwards,  and 
assisted  him  in  beginning  his  housekeeping.  We  found  Mrs. 
Mullens  to  be  a  woman  every  way  adapted  to  the  companion 
she  had  chosen.  She  was  willing  to  live  upon  her  friends.  She 
delighted  in  gifts,  and  took  them  as  if  they  were  hers  by  right. 
Everything  was  grain  that  came  to  her  mill  in  this  way.  Her 
wants  and  her  inability  to  supply  them  were  the  constant 
theme  of  her  communications  with  her  friends  and  neighbors, 
and  for  ten  long  years  she  was  never  without  a  "helpless  in 
fant"  with  which  to  excite  their  laggard  and  weary  charities. 
Whenever  she  needed  to  purchase  anything,  she  sent  to  me  or 
to  Millie,  or  to  her  friends  at  The  Mansion,  her  commission, — 
always  without  the  money.  She  either  did  not  know  how  much 
the  desired  articles  would  cost,  or  there  was  such  danger  of  los 
ing  money  when  sent  by  post,  or  she  had  not  the  exact  change  on 
hand  ;  but  she  assured  us  that  Mr.  Mullens  would  call  and  pay  us 
when  visiting  Bradford.  The  burden  thus  rolled  upon  Mr.  Mul 
lens  was  never  taken  up  by  him  ;  and  so,  year  after  year,  we 
consented  to  be  bled  by  this  amiable  woman,  while  the  Mullens 
family  went  on  increasing  in  numbers  and  multiplying  in  wants. 
It  became  a  matter  of  wonder  that  any  religious  society  should 
be  content  with  the  spiritual  ministrations  of  such  a  man  as 
Mullens;  but  this  society  was  simple  and  poor,  and  their  pastor 
had  an  ingenious  way  of  wanning  over  his  old  broth  and  the 
old  broth  of  others  which  secured  for  him  a  certain  measure  of 
respect.  His  tongue  was  glib,  his  presence  imposing,  and  his 
self-assurance  quite  overwhelming. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  change.  New  residents  in  the 
parish  saw  through  his  shallow  disguises,  and  raised  such  a  storm 
of  discontent  about  his  ears  that  he  was  compelled  to  resign  his 


ArtJmr  Bonnicastle.  389 

pulpit  and  to  cast  about  for  other  means  of  living.  No  other 
pulpit  opened  its  doors  to  him.  The  man's  reputation  outside 
of  his  parish  was  not  a  desirable  one.  Everybody  had  ceased 
to  regard  him  as  a  man  capable  of  teaching  ;  and  he  had  so 
begged  his  way  and  lived  upon  his  acquaintances,  and  had  so 
meanly  incurred  and  meanly  refused  to  recognize  a  thousand 
little  debts  among  his  early  friends,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  obtain  even  a  temporary  engagement  as  a  preacher. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do,  but  to  become  a  ped 
dler  of  some  sort,  for  which  office  he  had  rare  natural  gifts. 
Leaving  his  family  where  they  were,  he  took  an  agency  for  the 
sale  of  the  Cottage  Bible.  He  drove  a  thrifty  business  with  this 
publication,  going  from  house  to  house,  wearing  always  his  white 
cravat,  living  upon  the  ministers  and  deacons,  and  advertising 
himself  by  speeches  at  evening  meetings  and  Sunday-schools. 
Sometimes  he  got  an  opportunity  to  preach  on  Sunday,  and  hav 
ing  thus  made  his  face  familiar  to  the  people,  drove  a  brisk 
business  among  them  on  Monday.  His  white  cravat  he  used  as 
a  sort  of  pass  on  railroads  and  steamboats,  or  as  an  instrument 
by  which  it  was  to  b«e  secured.  Every  pecuniary  consideration 
which  could  be  won  from  a  contemptuous  business  world,  by  the 
advertisement  of  the  sacred  office  which  he  once  held,  he  took 
the  boldest  or  the  most  abject  way  to  win. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  "  old  Mullens,"  as  people 
learned  to  call  him,  was  really  distressed  by  poverty.  Never 
paying  out  a  cent  of  money  that  came  into  his  hands  if  he 
could  avoid  it,  he  accumulated  a  handsome  property,  which  he 
skillfully  hid  away  in  investments,  maintaining  his  show  of  pov 
erty,  through  all  his  active  life.  Henry  shook  him  off  at  last 
and  helped  me  to  do  the  same.  We  heard  of  him  not  long  ago 
lecturing  to  Sunday-schools  and  buying  wool,  and  it  is  not  ten 
years  since  he  appeared  in  Bradford  as  an  agent  of  a  life-insur 
ance  company,  with  specially  favorable  terms  to  clergymen  who 
were  kind  enough  to  board  him  during  his  visit.  I  shrink  from 
writing  here  the  stories  I  heard  about  him,  concerning  the  way 
in  which  he  advertised  his  business  by  mixing  it  with  his  public 


3QO  Arthur  Bonnicastlc. 

religious  teachings,  because  it  associates  such  base  ideas  with 
an  office  which  I  revere  as  the  highest  and  holiest  a  man  can 
hold  ;  but  when  I  say  that  in  his  public  addresses  he  represented 
the  Christian  religion  as  a  system  of  life-insurance  of  the 
spiritual  kind;  I  sufficiently  illustrate  his  methods  and  his 
motives. 

He  passed  a  useless  life.  He  became  a  nuisance  to  his 
professional  brethren,  a  burden  to  all  who  were  good-natured 
enough  to  open  their  houses  to  him,  and  a  disgrace  to  the 
Christian  ministry.  Wearing  the  badge  of  a  clergyman,  exact 
ing  as  a  right  that  which  was  rendered  to  others  as  a  courtesy 
or  a  testimonial  of  love  and  friendship,  surrendering  his  man 
hood  for  the  privileges  of  ministerial  mendicancy,  and  indulg 
ing  his  greed  for  money  at  the  expense  of  a  church  to  which 
he  fancied  he  had  given  his  life,  he  did,  unwittingly  perhaps, 
what  he  could  to  bring  popular  contempt  upon  his  profession, 
and  to  associate  with  the  Christian  religion  the  meanest  type  of 
personal  character  it  is  possible  to  conceive. 

Amid  the  temptations  of  this  poor,  earthly  life,  and  the 
weaknesses  of  human  nature,  even  the  most  sacred  profession 
will  be  disgraced,  now  and  then,  by  men  who  repent  in  dust 
and  ashes  over  their  fall  from  rectitude,  and  the  dishonor  they 
bring  upon  a  cause  which  in  their  hearts  they  love  ;  but  Mul 
lens  carried  his  self-complacency  to  the  end,  and  demonstrated 
by  his  character  and  influence  how  important  it  is  that  dunces 
shall  not  be  encouraged  to  enter  upon  a  high  walk  of  life  by 
benefactions  which  rarely  fail  to  induce  and  develop  in  them 
the  spirit  of  beggars.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  field  of  Christian 
benevolence  more  crowded  with  untoward  results  than  that  in 
which  weak  men  have  found  the  means  for  reaching  the  Chris 
tian  ministry.  The  beggarly  helplessness  of  some  of  these  men 
is  pitiful  ;  and  a  spirit  of  dependence  is  fostered  in  them  which 
emasculates  them,  and  makes  them  contemptible  among  those 
whom  they  seek  to  influence. 

Though  the  Rev.  Peter  Mullens  is  still  living,  I  have  no  fear 
that  I  shall  be  called  to  an  account  for  my  plain  treatment  of 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  391 

him,  as  he  will  never  buy  this  book,  or  find  a  friend  who  will 
be  willing  to  give  or  lend  it  to  him.  Even  if  he  had  such  a 
friend,  and  he  should  recognize  his  portrait,  his  amour  propre 
would  not  be  wounded,  and  he  would  complacently  regard  him 
self  as  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake. 


.  CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IN    WHICH    I    SAY    GOOD-NIGHT   TO    MY    FRIENDS    AND    THE    PAST 
AXD    GOOD-MORROW    TO    MY    WORK    AND    THE    FUTURE. 

THUS  I  have  lived  over  the  old  life,  or,  rather,  the  young  life 
which  lies  with  all  its  vicissitudes  of  pain  and  pleasure,  and  all 
its  lessons  and  inspirations,  embalmed  in  my  memory  ;  and  here, 
alas  !  I  must  re-write  the  words  with  which  I  began.  "  They 
were  all  here  then — father,  mother,  brothers  and  sisters  ;  and 
the  family  life  was  at  its  fullest.  Now  they  are  all  gone,  and 
I  am  alone.  I  have  wife  and  children  and  troops  of  friends, 
yet  still  I  am  alone."  No  later  relation  can  remove  the  sense 
of  loneliness  that  comes  to  him  whose  first  home  has  forever 
vanished  from  the  earth. 

As  I  sit  in  my  library,  recording  this  last  chapter  of  my  little 
history,  I  look  back  through  the  ceaseless  round  of  business 
and  care,  and,  as  upon  a  panorama  unrolling  before  me,  I  see 
through  tears  the  events  which  have  blotted  out,  one  after  an 
other,  the  old  relations,  and  transferred  the  lives  I  loved  to 
another  sphere. 

I  see  a  sun-lit  room,  where  my  aged  father  lies  propped 
among  his  pillows,  and  tells  me  feebly,  but  with  a  strange  light 
in  his  eyes,  that  it  is  so  much  better  for  him  to  go  before  my 
mother  !  She  can  do  better  without  him  than  he  can  without 
her  !  It  is  sweet  to  learn  that  she  who  had  always  been  re 
garded  by  her  family  and  friends  as  a  care  and  a  burden  to  him, 
had  been  his  rest  and  reward  ;  that  there  had  always  been 
something  in  his  love  for  her  which  had  atoned  for  his  hard  lot, 
and  that,  without  her,  his  life  would  be  undesirable. 

I  read  to  him  the  psalms  of  assurance  and  consolation  : 
"Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  393 

I  will  fear  no  evil."  I  repeat  the  words  of  the  tried  and  patient 
patriarch:  "I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."  I  join  with 
the  family  in  singing  the  inspiring  lines  which  he  had  never  un 
dertaken  to  read  aloud  without  being  crushed  into  sobbing 
silence  : 

"  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

A  vest  for  weary  pilgrims  found  ; 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground. 

"  The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose 
Than  summer  evening's  latest  sigh 
That  shuts  the  rose. 

"  I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 

And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 
From  all  rny  toil. 

"  The  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 

A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  ; 
The  soul,  immortal  as  its  sire, 
Shall  never  die." 

I  press  his  hand,  and  hear  him  say  :  "  It  is  all  well.  Take 
care  of  your  mother." 

We  all  bend  and  kiss  him  ;  a  few  quick  breaths,  and  the 
dear  old  heart  is  still — a  heart  so  true,  so  tender,  so  pure,  so 
faithful,  so  trusting,  that  no  man  could  know  it  without  recog 
nizing  the  Christian  grace  that  made  it  what  it  was,  or  finding 
in  it  infallible  evidence  of  the  divinity  of  the  religion  by  whose 
moulding  hand  it  was  shaped,  and  from  whose  inspirations  it 
had  drawn  its  life.  Then  we  lay  him  to  rest  among  the  June 
roses,  with  birds  singing  around  us,  and  all  nature  robed  in  the 
glowing  garb  of  summer,  feeling  that  there  are  wings  near  us 
which  we  do  not  see,  that  songs  are  breathed  which  we  do  not 
hear,  and  that  somewhere,  beyond  the  confines  of  mortal  pain 
and  decay,  he  has  found  a  summer  that  will  be  perennial. 


394  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

The  picture  moves  along,  and  I  am  in  the  same  room  again  ; 
and  she  who  all  her  life,  through  fear  of  death,  had  been  sub 
ject  to  bondage,  has  come  to  her  final  hour.  She  has  reached 
the  door  of  the  sepulchre  from  a  long  distance,  questioning 
painfully  at  every  step  :  "  Who  shall  roll  away  the  stone  ?  "  and 
now  that  she  is  arrived,  she  finds,  to  her  unspeakable  joy  and 
peace,  that  the  stone  is  rolled  away.  Benignant  nature,  which 
has  given  her  so  strong  a  love  of  life,  overcomes  in  its  own 
tender  way  the  fear  of  death  that  had  been  generated  in  her 
melancholic  temperament,  and  by  stealing  her  senses  one  by 
one,  makes  his  coming  not  only  dreadless,  but  desirable.  She 
finds  the  angels  too,  one  at  the  head,  the  other  at  the  foot 
where  death  has  lain,  with  white  hands  pointing  upward.  I 
weep,  but  I  am  grateful  that  the  life  of  fear  is  past,  and  that 
she  can  never  live  it  again, — grateful,  too,  that  she  is  reunited 
to  him  who  has  been  waiting  to  introduce  her  to  her  new  being 
and  relations.  We  lay  her  by  the  side  of  the  true  husband 
whose  life  she  has  shared,  and  whose  children  she  has  borne 
and  reared,  and  then  go  back  to  a  home  which  death  has  left 
without  a  head— to  a  home  that  is  a  home  no  longer. 

The  picture  moves  on,  and  this  time  I  witness  a  scene  full 
of  tender  interest  to  me  in  my  own  house.  A  holy  spell  of 
waiting  is  upon  us  all.  Aunt  Flick  comes  in,  day  after  day, 
with  little  services  which  only  she  can  render  to  her  tenderly 
beloved  niece,  and  with  little  garments  in  her  hands  that  wait 
the  coming  of  a  stranger.  It  is  night,  and  there  is  hurrying  to 
and  fro  in  the  house.  I  sit  in  my  room,  wrapped  in  pity  and 
feverish  with  anxiety,  with  no  utterance  save  that  of  whispered 
prayers  for  the  safety  of  one  dearer  to  me  than  life.  I  hear 
at  last  the  feeble  wail  of  a  new  being  which  God  has  intrusted 
to  her  hands  and  mine.  Some  one  comes  and  tells  me  that 
all  is  well,  and  then,  after  a  weary  hour,  I  am  summoned  to 
the  chamber  where  the  great  mystery  of  birth  has  been  enacted. 
I  kneel  at  the  bedside  of  my  precious  wife.  I  cover  her  hands 
and  her  face  with  kisses.  I  call  her  my  darling,  my  angel, 
while  my  first-born  nestles  upon  her  arm,  wrapped  in  the  at- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  395 

mosphere  of  mother-love  which  her  overflowing  heart  breathes 
out  upon  it.  I  watch  her  day  by  day,  and  night  by  night, 
through  all  her  weakness  and  danger,  and  now  she  sits  in  her 
room  with  her  baby  on  her  breast,  looking  out  upon  the  sky  and 
the  flowers  and  the  busy  world. 

Still,  as  the  canvas  moves,  come  other  memorable  nights, 
with  varying  fortunes  of  pain  and  pleasure,  till  my  home  is  res 
onant  with  little  feet,  and  musical  with  the  voices  of  children. 
They  climb  my  knees  when  I  return  from  the  fatigues  of  the 
day ;  I  walk  in  my  garden  with  their  little  hands  clinging  to 
mine  ;  I  listen  to  their  prayers  at  their  mother's  knee  ;  I  watch 
over  them  in  sickness  ;  I  settle  their  petty  disputes  ;  I  find  in 
them  and  in  their  mother  all  the  solace  and  satisfaction  that  I 
desire  and  need.  Clubs  cannot  win  me  from  their  society  ; 
fame,  honor,  place,  have  no  charms  that  crowd  them  from  my 
heart.  My  home  is  my  rest,  my  amusement,  my  consolation, 
my  treasure-house,  my  earthly  heaven. 

And  here  stoops  down  a  shadow.  I  stand  in  a  darkened 
room  before  a  little  casket  that  holds  the  silent  form  of  my 
first-born.  My  arm  is  around  the  wife  and  mother  who  weeps 
over  the  lost  treasure,  and  cannot,  till  tears  have  had  their  way, 
be  comforted.  I  had  not  thought  that  my  child  could  die — that 
my  child  could  die.  I  knew  that  other  children  had  died,  but 
I  felt  safe.  We  lay  the  little  fellow  close  by  his  grandfather  at 
last ;  we  strew  his  grave  with  flowers,  and  then  return  to  our 
saddened  home  with  hearts  united  in  sorrow  as  they  had  never 
been  united  in  joy,  and  with  sympathies  forever  opened  toward 
all  who  are  called  to  a  kindred  grief.  I  wonder  where  he  is 
to-day,  in  what  mature  angelhood  he  stands,  how  he  will  look 
when  I  meet  him,  how  he  will  make  himself  known  to  me, 
who  has  been  his  teacher !  He  was  like  me  :  will  his  grand 
father  know  him  ?  I  never  can  cease  thinking  of  him  as  cared 
for  and  led  by  the  same  hand  to  which  my  own  youthful  fingers 
clung,  and  as  hearing  from  the  fond  lips  of  my  own  father,  the 
story  of  his  father's  eventful  life.  I  feel  how  wonderful  to  me 
has  been  the  ministry  of  my  children — how  much  more  I  have 


396  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

learned  from  them  than  they  have  ever  learned  from  me — 
how  by  holding  my  own  strong  life  in  sweet  subordination  to 
their  helplessness,  they  have  taught  me  patience,  self-sacrifice, 
self-control,  truthfulness,  faith,  simplicity  and  purity. 

Ah  !  this  taking  to  one's  arms  a  little  group  of  souls,  fresh 
from  the  hand  of  God,  and  living  with  them  in  loving  compan 
ionship  through  all  their  stainless  years,  is,  or  ought  to  be,  like 
living  in  heaven,  for  of  such  is  the  heavenly  Kingdom.  To  no 
one  of  these  am  I  more  indebted  than  to  the  boy  who  went 
away  from  me  before  the  world  had  touched  him  with  a  stain. 
The  key  that  shut  him  in  the  tomb  was  the  only  key  that  could 
unlock  my  heart,  and  let  in  among  its  sympathies  the  world  of 
sorrowing  men  and  women,  who  mourn  because  their  little 
ones  are  not. 

The  little  graves,  alas  !  how  many  they  are  !  The  mourners 
above  them,  how  vast  the  multitude  !  Brothers,  sisters,  I  am 
one  with  you.  I  press  your  hands,  I  weep  with  you,  I  trust 
with  you,  I  belong  to  you.  Those  waxen,  folded  hands,  that 
still  breast  so  often  pressed  warm  to  our  own,  those  sleep- 
bound  eyes  which  have  been  so  full  of  love  and  life,  that  sweet, 
unmoving,  alabaster  face — ah  !  we  have  all  looked  upon  them, 
and  they  have  made  us  one  and  made  us  better.  There  is  no 
fountain  which  the  angel  of  healing  troubles  with  his  restless 
and  life-giving  wings  so  constantly  as  the  fountain  of  tears,  and 
only  those  too  lame  and  bruised  to  bathe  miss  the  blessed 
influence. 

The  picture  moves  along,  and  now  sweeps  into  view  The 
Mansion  on  the  hill — my  old  home — the  home  of  my  friend 
and  sister.  I  go  in  and  out  as  the  years  hurry  by,  and  little 
feet  have  learned  to  run  and  greet  me  at  the  door,  and  young 
lips  have  been  taught  to  call  me  "  uncle."  It  is  a  door  from 
which  no  beggar  is  ever  turned  away  unfed,  a  door  to  which 
the  feeble,  the  despairing,  the  sorrowing,  the  perplexed  have 
come  for  years,  and  been  admitted  to  the  counsels,  encourage 
ments,  and  self-denying  helpfulness  of  the  strongest  and  noblest 
man  I  know.  The  ancient  mistress  of  the  establishment  is 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  397 

quite  forgotten  by  the  new  generation,  and  the  house  which, 
for  so  many  years,  was  shut  to  the  great  world  by  the  selfish 
recluse  who  owned  it,  is  now  the  warmest  social  center  of  the 
town.  Its  windows  blaze  with  light  through  many  a  long  even 
ing,  while  old  age  and  youth  mingle  in  pleasant  converse ;  and 
forth  from  its  ample  resources  go  food  and  clothing  for  the 
poor,  and  help  for  the  needy,  and  money  for  those  who  bear 
the  Good  Tidings  to  the  border.  Familiar  names  are  multi 
plied  in  the  house.  First  there  comes  a  little  Claire,  then  an 
Arthur  Bonnicastle,  then  a  Ruth,  and  last  a  Minnie;  and  Claire, 
so  like  her  mother  in  person  and  temper,  grows  up  to  be  a 
helpful  woman.  I  visit  my  old  room,  now  the  chamber  of 
little  Arthur  Bonnicastle,  but  no  regrets  oppress  me.  I  am 
glad  of  the  change,  and  glad  that  the  older  Arthur  has  no  sel 
fish  part  or  lot  in  the  house. 

And  now  another  shadow  droops.  Ah  !  why  should  it 
come  ?  The  good  Lord  knows,  and  He  loves  us  all. 

In  her  room,  wasting  day  by  day  with  consumption,  my  sister 
sits  and  sees  the  world  glide  away  from  her,  with  all  its  indus 
tries  and  loves,  and  social  and  home  delights.  The  strong  man 
at  her  side,  loaded  with  cares  which  she  so  long  has  lightened, 
comes  to  her  from  his  wearying  labor,  and  spends  with  her 
every  precious  flying  hour  that  he  can  call  his  own.  lie  almost 
tires  her  with  tender  ministry.  He  lifts  her  to  her  bed  ;  he  lifts 
her  to  her  chair ;  he  reads  to  her ;  he  talks  calmly  with  her  of  the 
great  change  that  approaches  ;  he  sustains  her  sinking  courage  ; 
he  calls  around  her  every  help  ;  he  tries  in  every  way  to  stay 
the  hand  of  the  fell  destroyer,  but  it  is  all  in  vain.  The  long- 
dreaded  day  comes  at  last,  and  The  Mansion — nay,  all  Bradford 
— is  in  mourning.  A  pure  woman,  a  devoted  wife,  a  tender 
mother,  a  Christian  friend,  sleeps  ;  and  a  pastor,  whose  life  is 
deepened  and  broadened  and  enriched  by  a  grief  so  great  and 
lasting  that  no  future  companionship  of  woman  can  even  be 
thought  of,  goes  to  his  work  with  a  new  devotion  and  the  unc 
tion  of  a  new  power.  There  is  still  a  Claire  to  guide  the 


398  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

house,  and  the  memory  and  influence  of  a  saint  to  hallow  all 
its  walls,  and  chasten  all  its  associations. 

The  picture  sweeps  along,  and  presents  to  my  imagination 
a  resistless  river,  calm  in  its  beginnings,  but  torn  and  turbulent 
as  it  proceeds,  till  it  plunges  in  a  cataract  and  passes  from  my 
sight.  Along  its  passage  are  little  barks,  each  bearing  a  mem 
ber  of  my  family — -my  brothers  and  sisters — separated  from  me 
and  from  each  other  by  miles  of  distance,  but  everyone  moving 
toward  the  abyss  that  swallows  them  one  by  one.  The  disease 
that  takes  my  sister  Claire  takes  them  all.  Each  arriving  at 
her  age  passes  away.  Each  reaching  the  lip  of  the  cataract, 
lets  go  the  oars,  tosses  up  helpless  hands,  makes  the  fatal 
plunge,  and  the  sob  surge  and  of  the  waters,  wind-borne  to  my 
shrinking  ears,  is  all  that  is  left  to  me.  Not  all,  for  even  now 
a  rainbow  spans  the  chasm,  to  promise  me  that  floods  shall 
never  overwhelm  them  again,  and  to  prove  to  me  that  tears 
may  be  informed  with  the  same  heavenly  light  that  shines  in  living 
flowers,  and  paints  the  clouds  of  sunrise. 

The  noise  of  the  cataract  dies  away  in  the  distance,  the 
river  dissolves,  and  I  sit  inside  a  new  and  beautiful  church. 
The  old  one  has  been  torn  down  to  make  way  for  a  larger  and 
better  one.  It  is  communion-day,  and  behind  the  table  on 
which  is  spread  the  Christian  feast  of  commemoration  sits  my 
boyhood's  companion,  my  college  friend,  my  brother  and  pastor, 
Henry  Sanderson.  The  years  have  strewn  silver  over  his  tem 
ples  and  graven  furrows  upon  his  face,  but  earnestness,  strength, 
and  benignity  are  the  breath  and  burden  of  his  presence.  An 
event  is  about  to  take  place  of  great  interest  to  him,  to  the 
church,  and  to  a  large  circle  of  business  men.  Mr.  Bradford, 
for  the  first  time,  publicly  takes  his  stand  among  the  Christian 
family.  He  is  old  now,  and  the  cane  which  he  tised  to  carry  for 
company,  and  as  a  habit,  has  become  a  necessity.  He  takes 
his  place  in  the  aisle,  and  by  his  side  my  own  dear  wife,  who  from 
her  childhood  has  stood  loyally  by  him  and  refused  to  unite 
with  a  church  until  he  could  do  so.  The  creed  has  been  re 
vised.  The  refinements  and  elaborate  definitions  and  non-es- 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  399 

sential  dogmas  have  been  swept  away,  and  the  simple  old  Apos 
tle's  Creed,  in  which  millions  of  disciples  and  saints  have  lived 
and  died  in  the  retiring  centuries,  is  all  that  is  read  to  him,  and 
all  to  which  he  is  called  upon  to  respond. 

Home  at  last !  Received  into  the  fold  where  he  has  al 
ways  belonged !  A  patriarch,  seated  at  the  table  of  the  Lord 
from  which  he  has  been  shut  away  by  children  in  experience, 
wisdom,  and  piety  !  He  is  my  father  now,  the  grandfather  of 
my  children,  and  the  little  wife  who  has  trusted  him  and  believed 
in  him  all  her  life  has  at  last  the  supreme  happiness  of  commun 
ing  with  him  and  her  daughter  in  the  holy  festival. 

Why  do  I  still  watch  the  unrolling  canvas  ?  The  scenes  that 
come  and  pass  are  not  painful  to  me,  because  they  are  all  associ 
ated  with  precious  memories  and  precious  hopes,  but  to  those 
who  read  they  must  be  somber  and  saddening.  Why  tell  of 
the  news  that  reached  me  one  day  from  Hillsborough  ?  Why 
tell  of  that  which  reached  me  six  months  afterward  from  the 
same  place  ?  They  sleep  well  and  their  graves  are  shrines. 
Why  tell  how  Aunt  Flick,  from  nursing  one  with  malignant  dis 
ease,  came  home  to  die,  and  left  undone  a  world  of  projected 
work  ?  Why  tell  how  Mr.  Bradford  was  at  last  left  alone,  and 
came  to  pass  the  remnant  of  his  life  with  me  ?  Why  tell  of 
another  shadow  that  descended  upon  The  Mansion,  and  how, 
in  its  dark  folds,  the  lovely  mother  of  my  friend  disappeared  ? 

It  is  the  story  of  the  world.  We  are  born,  we  grow  to  man 
hood  and  womanhood,  we  marry,  we  work,  we  die.  The  gene 
rations  come  and  go,  and  they  come  without  call  and  go  with 
out  significance  if  there  be  not  a  confident  hope  and  expectation 
of  something  to  follow,  so  grand  and  sweet  and  beautiful  that 
we  can  look  upon  it  all  without  misgiving  or  pain.  Faith  draws 
the  poison  from  every  grief,  takes  the  sting  from  every  loss,  and 
quenches  the  fire  of  every  pain  ;  and  only  faith  can  do  it. 
Wisdom,  science,  power,  learning — all  these  are  as  blind  and 
impotent  before  the  great  problem  of  life  as  ignorance  and 
weakness.  The  feeblest  girl,  believing  in  God  and  a  hereafter, 
is  an  archangel  by  the  side  of  the  strongest  man  who  questions 


400  Arthur  Bonnicastle. 

her  simple  faith,  and  mounts  on  wings  where  he  stumbles  in 
doubt  and  distress,  or  sinks  in  darkness. 


To  those  of  two  homes  who  are  living,  through  six  long  and 
ever-memorable  evenings,  I  have  read  my  book,  and  now  they 
are  all  with  me  to-night  as  I  draw  the  chair  to  my  library-table, 
to  write  these  closing  paragraphs.  The  center  of  the  group 
is  Mr.  Bradford,  an  old,  old  man,  though  he  is  still  strong 
enough  to  hold  my  youngest  upon  his  knee.  Henry  sits  near 
him,  talking  with  Millie,  while  the  young  people  are  gathered 
in  a  distant  corner,  conversing  quietly  among  themselves  about 
the  events  I  have  for  the  first  time  fully  unveiled  to  them. 
Their  talk  does  not  disturb  me,  for  my  thoughts  linger  over 
what  I  have  written,  and  I  feel  that  the  task  which  has  been 
such  a  delight  to  me  is  soon  to  pass  from  my  hands-.  No  work 
can  come  to  me  so  sweet  as  this  has  been.  I  have  lived  my 
life  again — a  life  so  full  of  interest  that  it  seems  as  if  I  could 
never  tire  of  it,  even  though  death  should  come  nearer  and 
nearer  to  me,  waiting  for  my  consent  to  be  pushed  from  the 
verge  of  earthly  existence. 

I  hear  the  quiet  voices  around  me.  I  know  where  and  what 
I  am,  but  I  cannot  resist  the  feeling  that  there  are  more  forms 
in  the  room  than  are  visible  to  my  eyes.  I  do  not  look  up, 
but  to  me  my  library  is  full.  Those  who  are  gone  cannot  have 
lost  their  interest  in  those  who  remain,  and  those  who  are  gone 
outnumber  us  two  to  one.  My  own,  I  am  sure,  are  close  about 
me,  looking  over  my  shoulder,  and  tracing  with  me  these  clos 
ing  words.  Their  arms  are  intertwined,  they  exchange  their 
thoughts  about  me  all  unheard  by  my  coarse  senses,  and  I  am 
thrilled  by  an  influence  which  I  do  not  understand.  My  sister 
sits  by  the  side  of  her  husband  unseen,  and  listens  to  the  words 
which  he  is  speaking  to  my  wife,  and  hears  her  own  name  pro 
nounced  with  grateful  tenderness.  Mr.  Bradford  has  a  com 
panion  older  than  the  little  one  who  sits  upon  his  knee  and 
plays  with  his  great  gold  chain,  but  sees  her  not.  There  are 


Arthur  Bonnicastle.  401 

wistful,  sympathetic  faces  among  the  children,  and  they  cannot 
know  why  they  are  so  quiet,  or  what  spell  it  is  that  holds  them. 
A  severe,  restless  little  woman  watches  her  grandson  with 
greedy  eyes,  or  looks  around  upon  those  she  once  had  within 
her  power,  but  regards  us  all  in  impotent  silence.  Of  them, 
but  apart,  companions  in  the  new  life  as  they  were  in  the  old, 
are  two  who  come  to  visit  their  boys  again — boys  growing  old 
in  labor  and  preparing  to  join  them  in  another  school,  among 
higher  hills  and  purer  atmospheres,  or  to  be  led  by  them  to  the 
tented  shores  of  the  River  of  the  Water  of  Life.  The  two 
worlds  have  come  so  near  together  that  they  mingle,  and 
there  are  shadows  around  me,  and  whispers  above  me,  and 
the  rustle  of  robes  that  tell  me  that  life  is  one,  and  the  love  of 
kindred  and  friends  eternal. 


Tomorrow,  ah  !  golden  to  morrow  !  Thank  God  for  the  hope 
of  its  coming,  with  all  its  duty  and  care,  and  work  and  ministry, 
and  all  its  appeals  to  manliness  and  manly  endeavor  !  Thank 
God,  too,  for  the  long  dissipation  of  the  dreams  of  selfish  ease 
and  luxury  !  Life  has  no  significance  to  me,  save  as  the  thea 
ter  in  which  my  powers  are  developed  and  disciplined  by  use, 
and  made  fruitful  in  securing  my  own  independence  and  the 
good  of  those  around  me,  or  as  the  scene  in  which  I  am  fitted 
for  the  work  and  worship  of  the  world  beyond.  The  little 
ones  and  the  large  ones  of  my  own  flock  are  crowding  me 
along.  Soon  they  will  have  my  place.  I  do  not  pity,  I  almost 
envy  them.  Life  is  so  grand,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  meaning, 
so  splendid  in  its  opportunities  for  action,  so  hopeful  in  its  high 
results,  that,  despite  all  its  sorrows,  I  would  willingly  live  it  over 
again. 

Good-night ! 


GARNERED  SHEAVES. 

The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of 

J.    G.    HOLLAND    (Timothy  TitcomS). 
RED  LINE  EDITION, 

Printed  on  tinted  paper,  with  sixteen  full-page  illustrations,  and  a  ne^ 
portrait  of  the  author  on  steel.  I  vol.,  small  410,  602  pages.  Cloth. 
Price  $4.00;  morocco,  $7.50. 

This  volume  comprises  "Bitter  Sweet,"  "Kathrina,"  and  the  "Marble 
Prophecy,"  with  the  miscellaneous  poems  lately  issued.  The  thousands  to 
whom  these  poems  are  already  as  household  words,  will  give  them  a  cordial 
welcome  in  this  very  attractive  form. 


A  New  Poem  by  DR.  HOLLAND. 

THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

And    Other    Poems. 
By  J.  G.  Holland,  Author  of  "Bitter  Sweet,"  "Kathrina,"  &c.,  &c. 

One  vol.  I2mo,  with  a  full-page  illustration,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Marble  Prophecy  is,  next  to  "  l?itter  Sweet"  and  "Kalhrina,"  Dr.  Holland's 
longest  and  most  important  poem.  But  it  is  very  different  in  subject  from  its  famous  pre 
decessors.  Taking  for  his  theme  the  noble  group  Laocuon,  the  poet  presents,  in  vigorous 
and  picturesque  verse,  some  of  the  most  vital  religious  and  political  questions  of  the  day. 
The  minor  pieces  of  the  present  collection  are  many  of  them  already  well  known  to  the 
public.  Here  maybe  found  such  strong  and  beautiful  verse  as  "Daniel  («ray,"  "The 
Heart  of  the  War,"  &c.,  &c.  The  Marble  Prophecy  appears  now  for  the  first  time,  and 
the  other  poems  have  never  before  been  collected.  Altogether  it  is  a  pure,  worthy  and 
notable  volume  of  poetry,  and  one  that  cannot  fail  to  win  a  still  wider  reputation  for  thii 
very  popular  author. 


The  above  works  sent,  f>ost-f>aid,  on  receipt  of  price, 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 

6S4  llroadway,  JVYi*   1'orfr. 


THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  P/IACDONALD 


PUBLISHED  BY 


Scribner,    Armstrong   &   Co 

'  o 

654  Broadway,  New  York. 


THE  HIDDEN  LIFE 

AND  OTHEE  POEMS. 

i  Vol.,  tamo,  $1.50. 

This  volume  includes  "The  Hidden  Life,"  MacDonald's  well  known  poem  "The  Dis 
ciple,"  "  The  Gospel  Women,"  "  A  Hook  of  Sonnets,"  and  the  "  Or^au  Songs,"  intludiiig 
the  "  Ode  to  Light," — itself  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  modern  poems. 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT. 

i  VoL,  i2mo,  $1.50. 

This,  which  is  the  lonccst  poem  and  one  of  the  most  important  works  of  this  popular 
autlu..-,  i.--,  in  tact,  a  Tli  fill  in;/  Stot  y  in  Verse. 

It  de;»ls  sn  a  graphic  ami  masterly  manner  with  the  deepest  human  passion,  is  beautiful 
with  imagination,  and  intensely  interesting  in  plot.  Macdonali!  is  one  of  the  most  original 
anil  charming  if  living  poets,  ami  the  many  American  readers  of  bis  prose  works  will  be 
delighted  at  *  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  his  poetry. 


"All  Mr.  MacDonald's  usual  moral  and  spiritual  subtlety  and  tendencies  are  these, 
»nd  the  story  is  full  01  tho  uoit  lovely  light." — Contemporary  Review. 


WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE, 

Author   of  "Alee.  Forbes,"    "Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood"   &?. 
i  Vol.,  izmo.     Price  $1.75.     Cheap  edition,  paper,  75C,  cloth,  §1.25. 

CRITICAL     NOTICES. 

"This  book  is  full  of  intellectual  wealth.  It  will  teach  us  as  many  wise  thoughts,  and 
nurture  as  many  noble  feelings,  as  either  '  Robert  Falconer"  or  '  Alec.  Forbes.'  " — Uritish 
Quarterly  Keview. 

"  It  is  simple,  natural,  pathetic,  and  playful  by  turns,  interesting  in  plot  and  develop 
ment  of  character,  and  written  in  such  limpid  English  as  it  does  one  good  to  meet  with."  — 
A".  I'.  Jsurml  of  Commerce. 

"The  best  story  of  him  who  is  the  best  of  living  story-writers.  It  may  be  enjojed 
almost  in  perfection  by  one  who  has  not  read  the  beginning,  and  who  will  never  read  the 
sequel  ;  and  it  uill  remain  in  the  memory  like  a  beautiful  song." — A*.  Y.  Independent. 

"  Mr.  Macd^nnld's  writings  are  beautiful  in  style,  powerful  in  description,  pathetic  and 
pure  in  their  design." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

£&~  Thest  ii'orks  sent,  past-paid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price 


HOLLAND'S   "WORKS 


TITCOMB'S  LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE, 

Single  and  Married.     One  vol.    121110,  Turkey  morocco,   $4.00;    cloth 
full  gilt,  $2.50  ;  cloth, $i.^a 

BITTER-SWEET.  A  Poem.  One  vol.  121110,  full 
gilt,  $2.50;  cloth $1.50 

KATHRINA:  Her  Life  and  Mine.  In  a  Poem. 
One  vol.  lamo,  about  300  pages.  Full  gilt,  $2.50;  clolh,  .  $1.50 

GOLD-FOIL    HAMMERED    FROM   POPULAR 

Proverbs.     By  TIMOTHY  TITCOMB.     One  vol.  lamo,  cloth,  .     $1.75 

LESSONS  IN  LIFE:  A  Series  of  Familiar  Es 
says.  By  TIMOTHY  TITCOMB.  One  vol.  121110,  cloth,  .  $1.75 

LETTERS  TO  THE  JONESES.  By  TIMOTHY 
TITCOMB.  One  vol.  121110, $i-75 

PLAIN    TALKS    ON    FAMILIAR    SUBJECTS. 

A  Series  of  Popular  Lectures.     One  vol.  121110,  cloth,      .         .     $i-75 

THE    BAY    PATH:     A    Tale    of    New    England 

Colonial  Life.     One  vol.  121110,  cloth,    .....     $2.00 

MISS     GILBERT'S     CAREER:      An    American 

Story.     One  vol.  I2mo,  cloth,          ......      $2.00 

BRIGHTWOOD  EDITION  OF  DR.  J.  G.  HOL 
LAND'S  (Timothy  Titcomb'sj  SELECT  WORKS.  In  six  vols. 
161110,  cabinet  size,  printed  from  new  stereotype  plates,  upon  tinted 
wove  paper,  including — 

Bitter-Sweet, $1.50 

Kathrina, 1.50 

Lessons  in  Life,    .........        1.75 

Gold  Foil, 1.75 

Timothy  Titcomb's   Letters  to  Young  People,  .         .        1.50 

Plain  Talks  (Dr.  Holland's  Popular  Lectures),         .         .        1.75 

The  volumes  of  this  edition  may  be  purchased  separately,  or  they  will 
be  furnished  in  a  handsome  box  for  $9.00. 


The  Erckmann-Chatrian  Novels 


CONSCRIPT:    A   Tale  of  the  French  War  oj 

1813.  With  four  full-page  Illustrations.  One  vol.  I2mo.  Price,  in 
paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Commercial. 

''  It  is  hardly  fiction, — it  is  history  in  the  guise  of  fiction,  and  that  part  of  history  which 
hi'torians  hardly  write,  concerning  the  disaster,  the  ruin,  the  sickness,  the  poverty,  atd  tha 
ultui  misery  and  suffering  which  war  brings  upon  the  people." 

WATERLOO:   A  Story  of  the  Hundred  Days.   B««g» 

Sequel  to  "  The  Conscript.''''  With  four  full-page  Illustrations.  One 
vol.  121110.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  New  York  Daily  Herald. 

"  Written  in  that  charming  style  of  simplicity  which  has  made  the  RKCKMANN- 
CIIATRIAN  works  popular  in  ez'ery  language  in  which  they  have  been  published." 

THE  BLOCKADE  OF  PHALSBURG.   AH  E Pisode  of  the  Fan 

of  the  First  French  Empire.  With  four  full-page  Illustrations  and  a 
Portrait  of  the  authors.  One  vol.  lamo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  ce"ts ; 
cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  Philadelphia  Daily  Inquirer. 

"Not  only  are  they  interesting  historically,  but  intrinsically  a  pleasant,  well-constructed 
plot,  serving  in  each  case  to  connect  the  great  events  which  they  so  graphically  treat,  and 
the  style  being  as  vigorous  and  charming  as  it  is  pure  and  refreshing." 

INVASION  OF  FRANCE  IN  18H.    wuh  the  Night  March 

pxst  Phalsburg.  With  a  Memoir  of  the  Authors.  With  four  full-page 
Illustrations.  One  vol.  I2mo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  New  York  Evening  Mail 

"  All  their  novels  are  noted  for  the  same  admirable  qualities, — simple  and  effective  realism 
of  plot,  incident,  and  language,  and  a  disclosure  of  the  horrid  individual  aspects  of  war. 
They  are  absolutely  perfect  of  their  kind." 

MADAME  THERESE;  or,  The  Volunteers  '92.    wi.h 

four  full-page  Illustrations.  One  voL  I2mo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents; 
cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  Boston  Commonwealth. 

"It  is  a  boy's  storv — that  is,  supposed  to  be  written  by  a  boy — and  has  all  the  freshness, 
the  unconscious  simplicity  and  naivete  which  the  imagined  authorship  should  imply  ;  whila 
nothing  more  graphic,  more  clearly  and  vividly  pictorial,  has  been  brought  before  tht  f  ublic 
for  many  a  day." 

Any  or  all  of  the  above  volumes   tent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  tht  price  kf  ikt 


SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 

(Successors  to  CHARLES  SCRIBNHR  &  Co.X 


••The  very  best,  the  most  sensible,  tt\e  most  practical, 
lh.e  most  honest  book  or\  tl\is  matter  of  getting  up  good 
dinners,  and  livir\g  ir\  a  decent  Christian,  way,  t^at  h.as  yet 
fourtd  its  way  ir\  our  household." — Watchman  and  Reflector 

COMMON  SENSE 

In  the  Household. 
A  MANUAL  OF  PRACTICAL  HOUSEWIFERY, 

By  MARION    HARLAND, 

Author   of   "Alone,"    "Hidden     Path,"    "Nemesis,"   &c.,  <fto. 

One  vol.  lamo,  cloth.     Price $1  75 


SEE  WHATTHE  CRITICS,  ANDPRA  CTICAL  HOUSEKEEPERS,  say  of  it: 

"  And  now  we  have  from  another  popular  novelist  a  cookery  book,  whereof  our  house 
keeper  (this  literary  recorder  is  not  a  bachelor)  speaks  most  enthusiastically.  She  says 
that  simplicity  and  clearness  of  expression,  accuracy  of  detail,  a  regard  to  economy  of 
material,  and  certainty  of  good  results,  are  requisites  in  a  useful  receipt-book  for  the 
kitchen,  and  Marion  Harland  has  comprehended  all  these.  That  she  has  by  experience 
proved  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  housekeepers'  helps  in  general  is  shown  by  the  arrange 
ment  of  her  book.  She  has  appended  a  star  to  such  recipes  as,  after  having  tried  them 
herself,  she  can  recommend  as  safe  and  generally  simple.  Such  a  directory  will  be  a 
great  help  to  one  who  goes  to  the  book  for  aid  in  preparing  a  pleasant  and  savory  meal 
without  much  experience  in  cooking.  The  language  is  so  simple,  and  the  directions  so 
plain,  that  a  reasonably  intelligent  cook  might  avail  herself  of  it  to  vary  her  manner  of 
preparing  even  ordinary  dishes.  The  introduction  to  tho  book  should  be  printed  as  a 
tract  and  put  in  every  house.  The  simple  advice  for  the  management  of  servants,  the 
general  directions  at  the  head  of  each  department  of  cooking,  and  the  excellent  pages  on, 
the  sick-room,  make  as  complete  an  aid  to  housekeepers  as  can  well  be  desired." — Har 
per's  Monthly, 

"  In  the  hands  of  the  author,  whose  name  is  well  known  in  another  department  of 
literature,  the  subject  has  been  treated  with  thoroughness  and  skill,  showing  that  a  little 
common  sense  may  be  as  successful  in  the  concoction  of  a  toothsome  viand  as  in  the  com 
position  of  a  romance." — N.  Y.  Daily  Tribune. 

"  It  inspires  us  with  a  great  respect  for  the  housewifery  of  a  literary  lady,  and  wa 
cannot  err  in  predicting  for  it  a  wide  popularity." — ff.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"Unites  the  merits  of  a  trustworthy  receipt-book  with  the  freshness  >f  a  familiar 
talk  on  household  affairs." — Albany  Evening  Journal. 

"  The  directions  are  clear,  practical,  and  so  good  in  their  way  that  the  only  wonder  is, 
how  any  one  head  could  hold  so  many  pots,  kettles,  and  pans,  and  such  a  world  of  gas 
tronomic  good  things." — Hearth  ami  Home. 

"  The  recipes  are  clearly  expressed,  easy  to  follow,  and  not  at  all  expensive.     Th« 
suggestions  about  household  affairs  are  cltic.     On   a  test  .comparison  with  three  othel 
American  cook-books,  it  comes  out  ahead  upon  every  count.     Beyond  this  exjerto  creJi 
nothing  more  need  be  said." — Christian  Union. 
,       Copies  tent,  fast-paid,  on  rtc?if>t  of  the  frier,  by 

SCRIBNKR,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 

<»;>•/    llrotnliftiy,    .Veir   1'orfc. 


It  is  the  design  to  present  in  this  Library  a  aeries  of  works  by  the  best  authors  of  tha 
day.  lhr  leading  characteristics  ot  which  shall  be  elevation  and  purity  of  time,  and  entire 
freedom  from  every  thing  in  the  remotest  degree  demoralizing.  A  broad  page,  large  and 
clear  type,  will  miike  the  successive  volumes  thoroughly  readable,  and  occasionally  they 
will  be  carefully  illustrated. 

The  following  works  have  been  issued  during  the  Spring  and  Summer  of  1873  : 


A  NEW  NOVEL,  FROM  ADVANCE  SHEETS. 
By  MRS.   OLIPHANT,  author  of  "At  His  Gates,"  "Miss  Marjoribanks,   "Chronicles  of 

Carlingfurd,"  etc. 

One  vol.  Svo,  cloth,  $1.50.     Paper,  §1.00. 

The  characters  are  strongly  contrasted,  while  the  quaint  Scotch  humor  one  or  two  ot 
them  display  gives  to  the  story  u  freshness  and  heartiness  quite  unusual. 

"  Mrs.  Oliphant  is  always  original.  Her  books  have  a  certain  stamp  of  their  own.  Tha 
pern  of  this  novel,  "May,"  is  the  character  of  May,  or  Marjory  herself.  She  is  a  grand 
creature  and  we  congratulate  Mrs.  Oliphant  on  the  beauty  and  harmony  of  her  character." 
— London,  l&ilurday  Iteview. 

CALAMA;  or,  The  Beggars. 

By  J.    B.    DE   LIEFDE. 

One  vol.  Svo,  cloth,  $1.25.     Paper,  75  cents. 

This  is  a  frtory  of  love  and  adventure,  in  the  times  of  the  Dutch  Republic.  The  char- 
aeters  are  drawn  with  wonderful  clearness;  they  attract  the  warmest  sympathy  from  th« 
first,  and  every  reader  must  follow  their  fortunes  to  the  close  with  the  deepest  interest. 

"This  work  gives  a  striking  picture  of  those  famous  beggars  who  founded  the  'Dutch 
Republic,'  a  nation  whifh  has  l>een  governed  with  a  thrift,  not  surpassed  by  the  stern 
economy  of  Frederick  of  Prussia  and  his  successors." — N.  Y.  World. 

AT    HIS   GATES. 

By  MRS.  OLIPHANT,  author  of  "May."  "Chronicles  of  Carlingford,"  etc. 

One  vol.  Svo,  cloth,  $1.50.     Paper,  $1.00. 

Mrs.  Oliphant  ranks  among  the  first  of  living  novelists,  and  this  is  one  of  the  beet  of 
her  very  popular  productions. 

"It  is  a  better  novel,  to  our  mind,  than  any  woman,  'George  Eliot'  exoeptad,  has  given 
to  the  world  since  Charlotte  Bront6  laid  down  her  pen."— Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

"Revealing  a  remarkable  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  keen  intellectual  appre 
ciation  of  the  completeness  of  detail  essential  to  a  really  good  story." — livjfalo  Cotnnten  (at 
Advertiser. 

IN  PRESS.     WILL  BE  ISSUED  AT  AN  EARLY  DAY: 

THE  STORY  OF  WANDERING  WILLIE. 

BY  THK  AUTHOR  OF  "KrriK's  FRIENDS"  AND  "JOHN  HATHKRTON." 


f£T~  These  volumes  Kent,  poxt-ixtltl,  by  the  publishers  on  receipt  of  price. 

SCR1BNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO.,  654  Broadway,  N.  Y. 


000  138  257 


